


Promises

by faded_florals



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2020-11-22 12:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20874215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faded_florals/pseuds/faded_florals
Summary: The Phantom has captured Christine and Raoul in his lair beneath the Paris Opera House and has issued his ultimatum: Christine must choose to live the rest of her life with him, or escape with her freedom and leave Raoul to die. Christine makes her choice, but when circumstances change declarations made in the past are disregarded, and unfortunately The Phantom is not done with them just yet.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I wanted to make a note to my readers that this story will blend characters from multiple adaptations of The Phantom of the Opera. Only the events of the musical leading up to Christine's kiss with The Phantom are to be taken as canon, and any relevant events that occurred prior to the musical's timeline will be elaborated on within the story. This story is rated T with a content warning for graphic depictions of violence based off of AO3's rating system. Thank you and I hope you enjoy!

Raoul knew he would not last much longer. The cord of the Phantom’s lasso dug deeper into the delicate flesh of his neck with each passing second. His fingers were raw and sore from his attempts to claw under the hopelessly tight rope, and as his exhaustion grew his ability to balance himself on his toes waned. His head began to swim as his hearing became muffled, signaling that his window of consciousness was closing quickly.

Despite his precarious status, Raoul willed himself in his final moments to keep his eyes fixed on Christine. She glanced back at him, her face drowned in anguish and flooded in desperate tears, kneeling before the man who now held their fates in his skeletal hands. Her lips stuttered with words he could not hear, and she turned her pale face up to her fallen angel. Raoul tried to choke in a fruitless breath, his eyes reflexively pinching closed. He forced them open again through his tears, and to his horror, saw his beloved Christine in a deep embrace with their captor.

He was willing to die for her. He had told her so, cried out to her as fiercely as he could in his wretched state that she should flee and leave him to pay the Phantom’s price. She had suffered enough at the hands of this madman, and Raoul was ready to finally fulfill his promise to protect her, even if that promise would see him to an early grave.

But in this hell below the opera house, Christine flung herself into the fire and chose to save him. She lifted her face from the crook of the ghost’s neck, and with urgent speed and force rushed her lips to meet his. The Phantom laid his spindly hands on her slight frame after a moment of hesitation, seemingly caught off guard by the sudden intimacy he had been thrust into.

With his last seconds of lucidity, Raoul lamented how he had failed Christine time and time again, and yet she still ran willingly into death’s arms to save him. Raoul felt his body convulse with another futile attempt to breathe, choking not only by the rope but the torment of loss and defeat. His vision began to blur, and in one final fevered rush of adrenaline he pushed himself as hard as he could off of the ground with the toes of his shoes, and in a broken, raspy wail he choked out, “Christine!”

His voice hardly carried its way past his lips, and he did not remain in his head long enough to witness Christine’s reaction.


	2. Chapter 2

Her hands were soft. They were so warm and gentle as they cupped his cheeks, both of his cheeks! Her exquisite, rare, bewitching hands laid on his face as she drew away from their kiss, and lingered there for a time after. Erik took in the sight of Christine, standing before him with lips still parted, breathing in short wisps of air that made her shoulders rise and fall. She was staring directly at him, all of him, and did not avert her gaze. She touched him, looked at him, and still she stayed.

But there was fear in her eyes. He had seen it so many times before in those who had been unfortunate enough to know his face. Fear had a distinct way of painting a person’s features, and through his miserable life Erik had become a connoisseur of terror. Christine came to him now not for love, but in horror stricken desperation. But, he considered, she _had_ come to him. She had made her choice to stay and be his bride. Motivations could change, and the fear that now poisoned Christine’s fair visage would dissipate with time. She was a mellow creature by nature, and she would come around after a while to be a good and loving wife.

Erik pulled his eyes away from her, and regarded the form of the young man in the shadows beyond Christine. The crimson rope of the lasso stretched tightly upwards and disappeared into the darkness, rigged to a weighted pulley that should have kept the Vicomte struggling but alive for so long as Erik desired. However as he observed the man more closely, Erik noticed that the Vicomte had gone notably limp. The boy’s head hung to one side, and a few fingers of his left hand were crammed under the loop of the lasso, pinned against his neck while his other arm dangled lax at his side. Erik stepped around Christine with some haste, pushing up the sleeves of his fine white shirt as he approached his victim.

Christine had turned to see her lover’s body hanging slack and let out a horrified shriek before stumbling over herself to run to him. Erik reached for a concealed lever against the wall not far from where the lasso strung up his prey, and as he pulled it the rope audibly snapped, leaving the Vicomte’s body to fall uninhibited into the shallow water in front of the portcullis. _So the pulley did not malfunction_, Erik thought, _the boy must have been too light for the weights._

Christine crashed down to her knees, the wedding gown pooling around her as she snatched up Raoul by his shoulders. She laid his torso across her lap as Erik joined her in the water, kneeling in front of them to witness what had become of the young man. The noose of the lasso was still pinched tightly around his neck and fingers, despite Christine’s frantic efforts to loosen it. Reaching behind himself to his back pocket, Erik withdrew a small folding knife with an intricately carved handle. As he exposed the blade and maneuvered it close to the boy’s neck, Christine impulsively grabbed his wrist.

Her hands were so soft.

“The rope must be cut to release him.” Erik said flatly. “We do not have time to delay.”

Christine’s eyes flitted between Raoul’s face and the knife. “Don’t hurt him. Please.” She whimpered, releasing his wrist.

“He may likely be dead already.” Erik answered as he slipped the blade warily between the Vicomte’s fingers under the rope. There was just enough of a gap there for Erik to align the slim knife upright, and with a quick snap the sharp blade cut through the lasso’s cord. Christine peeled the rope away from the raw flesh of Raoul’s neck and brought her hand back up to his cheek, and with her gentle caress left a faint streak of blood down his face.

Erik returned his knife to his pocket. How could Christine stay with him now, if the boy had died here? It was just like that contemptuous little Vicomte to make this decision for her; he likely pulled down against the ropes to sacrifice himself in one final act of contrived valor. Anger began to fester inside of him once more as he leered at Christine clutching the young man with her soft hands. She whispered his name as she stroked his face, her other arm wrapped under his back, gently shaking the boy in an attempt to rouse him.

Erik heaved himself upwards to stand, his fists balled so tightly that his knuckles cracked from the pressure. Just as he reached his full height, Christine let out a startled gasp.

“He’s breathing!” She panted, lifting her head up to see Erik’s piercing golden eyes staring down at her. She quickly returned her focus to the young man, whose mouth had fallen open and drew ragged breaths. “Raoul? Raoul, open your eyes. Please, Raoul, won’t you look at me?”

Erik set his jaw and glared at the boy’s unblemished face as his eyes fluttered open feebly. The creamy color of his skin had begun to return, and though his gaze was distant and unfocused, he was very much still alive. With renewed vigor, Erik leaned down and grabbed the Vicomte’s arm just below the shoulder and forcefully wrenched the young man backwards towards dry land.

“Angel!” Christine wailed. The sudden movement pushed her off balance and she fell to her side, catching herself with both hands under the water. “Angel, let him go! He’s barely awake, you’ll kill him!”

Erik continued on, dragging the Vicomte up the rocky shore of the lake and finally depositing him onto the rug in the center of the cavernous room. The boy groaned and rolled to his side, his back now bleeding through his shirt from the scrapes and shallow lacerations he had accumulated from the ordeal. Christine waded out of the water clumsily but came to halt at the crest of the shore as Erik bowed down to capture the Vicomte by the throat once more.

“You made your choice!” Erik barked at her, lifting Raoul into a sitting position in front of himself. “You chose me, did you not? Yet still you wail for this arrogant fool!”

Christine held her hands out in front of herself defensively and took a step towards them. “I know, Angel. I’m sorry!” Her voice wavered as tears streamed down her cheeks. “Please, I have chosen you. I promise I will stay. Just don’t let him die.”

Erik paused as he considered her words. Christine confirmed her decision, that she would indeed remain here with him, although she had stubbornly insisted on one annoying condition. A condition which, Erik begrudgingly admitted to himself, was born of the same ultimatum he himself had given Christine earlier. Yes, he had said that if she chose to stay and marry him that the Vicomte would not be killed. But killing the boy and letting him die, he reasoned, were two different things, even if he had played some part in the young man’s misfortune. He doubted Christine would appreciate the difference, however.

After a few moments of apprehensive silence, Erik released Raoul’s throat from his grasp. Really, he need not be too troubled to uphold his word literally, for he had been clever in his vagueness. Christine chose to buy the boy’s freedom; his freedom from a quick and brutal death at the end of a rope. And as the little Vicomte had proven, though he was weak from the torment he had already suffered, there was a fair margin between life and death that Erik was interested in continuing to walk with the young man.

He addressed Christine as the Vicomte shuddered deliriously at his feet. “So be it. The boy lives, for now.”

Christine sobbed with relief, dropping her outstretched arms to instead hold onto herself in an ineffective act of self comfort.

Erik stood again and observed Raoul for a moment before moving towards a chest pushed against the wall. He raised the lid and from its depths he withdrew a pair of handcuffs and a key. It had been some time since the shackles had held a prisoner in their cold, tight jaws, though as Erik surveyed them he was happy to find that they were still serviceable. He turned back towards the boy, who was now barely sitting up, leaning on his trembling arms. Raoul jerked forward as Erik pulled back one of his arms to clamp the cuff around his wrist. The shackle was tightened with the screw-like key to the point where only a sliver of give remained, and Erik made quick work of the other wrist to fully bind the Vicomte’s hands behind his back.

“Angel,” Christine’s faint voice rose from where she stood, fearful to move any closer. “you promised me that he would go free if I stayed.”

Erik grabbed the link between the shackles and hoisted Raoul upwards with himself. The young man stumbled and muttered something incoherently, clearly not yet recovered. Erik yanked him around and steadied him somewhat with a firm hand on his shoulder. “I made no such promise.” He rebuked coldly, leading Raoul to walk towards one of the doors behind them. “You will stay here. I will return soon.”

With that, Erik whipped the door open and shoved Raoul forward to walk. The Vicomte staggered, remaining upright only by the pull of the shackles and the hand digging its gaunt fingers into his shoulder. He tried to look back, but before he could the door slammed shut behind them.


	3. Chapter 3

The impact of the door swinging shut startled Christine from her dazed state. She realized that she had been digging her fingernails into her arms through the sleeves of the wedding dress, and as she released her grip she looked down at herself, observing how filthy the gown had become. Among the sludge from the lake, which clung to the many ruffles and seeped through the layers of the fine fabric, a streak of blood stood out across the bodice where she had cradled Raoul’s neck steadfastly against her stomach. The tiers of the skirt had soaked up a great deal of water and pulled downward at her fatigued body, imploring her to surrender to their weight and fall to the ground. Instead, she defiantly hoisted as much of the fabric up as she could and dredged forward across the carpet towards the door that The Phantom had dragged her fiancé through.

She grabbed at the handle, and while pushing down gave it a solid shove like her tutor had moments before. She was thoroughly surprised to find that the door put up little resistance, and she stumbled forward as it swung open to reveal a small stone corridor lit by a single flickering sconce on the opposite wall.

Christine blinked in astonishment, turning to look behind herself as she second guessed her actions. Was it wise to follow them? Her teacher had ordered her to stay where she was, but recalling Raoul’s condition she feared that he may not hold up against more abuse. She still had cards to play, bargains that she could strike in exchange for her love’s safe return to the surface. She spun around again towards the hallway and took a resolute step forward, ready to face whatever trials lay ahead of her.

Four more doorways were staggered down the hall, each unassuming, each closed to her. All were faced with the same solid, dark wood, set into the stone of the walls that reached up far beyond her head to meet with the natural cave ceiling. There was no way of knowing which door The Phantom and Raoul had passed through next, and so Christine reached out to the door to her immediate left, in resignation that she had to at least try to open each one.

This door opened much like the first, only to reveal an ordinary washroom. Apart from the strange architecture of the room itself, the rough walls appearing to have been carved out of the depths of the cavern, the furnishings were typical, if not slightly nicer than those found in well kept establishments in Paris. Christine shut the door and progressed down the hallway, the next door opening for her easily. It was only a broom closet, mostly empty apart from some boxes stacked in the corner, as well as a mop and bucket. Feeling like she was wasting precious time, Christine twisted around, stepping on her sodden skirts to snatch the handle of the door on the other side of the hall. This handle did not budge, and she gave it a few more determined shakes before abandoning it to try the last door.

With anticipation Christine turned the handle of the final door, a small spark of hope flickering through her as the door gave way. Before she could fully reveal the chamber however, a small shadow emerged from inside of the room, slipping between the doorframe and her pile of skirts into the hallway. Christine gasped and jumped back, her hand still clutching the handle, and she yanked the door shut with an abrupt slam. She whirled around, searching for the creature that had spooked her, only to spy a long, black tail lazily wrap around the original doorframe and disappear around the corner into the main room.

_A cat!_ Christine thought, bewildered. She followed the tail back into the large cavern, and confirmed that the little beast that had nearly caused her heart to pound out of her chest was indeed a cat. The slender feline was unbothered by Christine’s presence, merely grateful to have been released from the chamber in which it was trapped. It peered at her briefly with its large blue eyes set in a masked black face, then continued on its way, brushing its cream colored body against the furniture as it walked away from her through the archway that led to the kitchen.

Christine’s mouth had fallen agape as she pondered the strange encounter, as well as how little she actually knew about the man she called her Angel. She had told him some time ago that she liked cats, that she would sometimes leave out remnants of chicken for the strays that lingered around the alleys near the opera house’s dormitories. But this cat appeared to be well cared for, with a shiny coat and bright eyes, waltzing through this lair like it was ruler of this domain. Perhaps her Angel had not lived completely alone, as she had previously thought.

Alone again, Christine returned to the final door and slowly opened it, this time without any disturbances. The chamber was dark, though the small amount of light which filtered in from behind her allowed her to see the outline of a grand postered bed in the center of the room, draped with curtains that pooled at each corner. Christine ran her hand down the side of the doorframe, and turned to see a gas lamp installed on the wall. On a small table just below she found a matchbox, and after fumbling with the striker for a moment she turned the lamp’s key as she held a lit match up to the mantle. The lamp ignited and cast a warm glow across the room, which Christine observed to be decorated with all of the comforts of a cozy bedchamber. The walls were paneled in attractive wood instead of cold sone, the carpet was plush and heavily embellished with swirling floral patterns in deep red and gold, and the other furniture was solid and expensive looking. How this room existed so far below the ground in the cellars of the opera house was a mystery to Christine, but her wonder was cut short by the realization that she had reached a dead end. The Phantom and Raoul could not have passed this way, and must have disappeared behind the door which remained locked to her.

With a dejected sigh she pressed her hands to her face, her exhaustion of both body and mind worsening. When she opened her eyes again they fell on a wardrobe against the wall to her right. She crossed the room laboriously, dragging the still soaking gown along behind herself. Her costume from the disastrous Don Juan Triumphant was laying in a pile in a small alcove inhabited by the now naked mannequin out in the main cavern, and as Christine drew open the wardrobe’s doors she prayed that there would be some other article of clothing that she could change into to save her from putting on that peach monstrosity again.

To her surprise the wardrobe was stocked with not just one, but four gowns, each lined up on the railing with care. Below them two pairs of walking shoes and pair of slippers sat on a shelf, and further down a drawer which contained assorted women’s underclothes. Christine mused for a moment if any of the clothes may possibly fit her, but she quickly berated herself for having such a naive thought. Of course they would fit her. He would have made sure of that.

Christine grudgingly accepted that by changing into these clothes that she was likely playing into her Angel’s fantasies. Just as she finished the monotonous task of lacing up the stays of the gown she heard a grinding noise emanate from the hallway. She left the grungy wedding dress and her drenched boots where they laid and skittered barefoot over to the door which had drifted mostly shut, covering her exposed décolletage with her hands. As she leaned to peer out, a large hand with long, thin fingers wrapped itself around the wood of the door, and Christine looked up to find herself staring directly into death’s golden eyes.

“Angel.” She breathed, her ability to muster more surprise far gone. “I-”

“You found your room, I see.”

Christine flattened her palms across her chest to cover herself more fully as The Phantom pushed the door open for himself, stepping inside with her. She watched him closely as he brushed past her towards the bed, veering off to the side to one of the nightstands. He opened one of the drawers and pulled out a another matchbox, and stooped down to light the small silver lamp there.

“My room?” Christine echoed him with a question, though she had already theorized as much. The rest of the lair, that which she had seen so far, was decorated in a decidedly masculine fashion, but the room in which they now stood had clearly been designed for the pleasure of more effeminate tastes. Her Angel had undoubtedly made some significant effort to make this chamber a sanctuary for her, but Christine thought that his endeavor was futile given the circumstances. Sure, the room was beautiful, but a gilded cage was still a cage.

He looked back at her finally, his eyes scanning her from top to bottom before answering. Although she stood before him in a state of moderate undress, his eyes did not linger anywhere but her face. “Yes, this is where you will be staying.” He shook the smoldering match, traversing back across the room to the door. In the full light of the room Christine could see how his clothes were dirtied much like hers had been. However, his shirt had significantly more blood soaked into the fibers, and its patterns down his sleeves were more of a splatter as opposed to the smudge of red that stained Christine’s wedding gown. Speckles of blood dotted his face and trailed down his neck as well, painting a scene of violence and pain in Christine’s mind which she had been helpless to prevent.

Christine eyed him, her breath beginning to catch in her throat again as tears brewed behind her eyes. “Is he alive?” she managed to squeak out, knowing that her words were unwelcome the moment they left her lips. But she had to ask, regardless of the consequences.

“He is.” the ghost of her former teacher replied simply. “You will not ask about him again.” His melodious voice, though conspicuously steeped in bitterness, was uncharacteristically flat, Christine noted. There was a slight hunch to his shoulders, and those reflective eyes had lost some of their luster. Exhaustion was taking its toll on him as well. He turned and stepped through the doorway, coming to a stop in the hall. “I will have dinner will ready soon. Rest until then.”

Christine watched him as he turned and strode beyond her view down the hallway. She moved into the corridor in time to see him unlocking the door to the room which she had been unable to gain access to earlier. After the door shut behind him, Christine stepped back into the bedroom and was overcome by the emotions that had threatened to escape from her as she looked into her Angel’s cruel face. Her head ached and she heaved a few labored breaths, but only a few hot tears raced down her cheeks. She was so tired, but she was not ready to give in and resign herself to hopelessness.

She needed to think. Soon she would sit with him for dinner, but now was the time to plan a course of action. Her own happiness be damned; it had left her a long time ago and there was little promise that she would find it again, not with all of the mistakes she had made to bring her to this point. All that remained was the hope that she might find a way for Raoul to see the light of day outside of this underground prison once more, and for now, that was enough for Christine to keep her head afloat above the anguish in her soul that threatened to drown her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter we briefly encountered Erik’s cat, which some may recognize from Susan Kay’s novel _Phantom_. You can expect appearances of other characters, including The Persian (Nadir Khan) and Comte Philippe de Chagny in future chapters, however I would like to clarify that all characters that do not exist in the musical universe will have their histories roughly based off of the Gaston Leroux novel. You will not need to have read either Leroux or Kay’s novels to understand this story. I hope this makes sense, and thank you for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

With a sharp breath Raoul was thrust abruptly back into consciousness. He gagged on the blood that had been pooling in his cheek as he laid lifelessly on his side, his lungs protesting against the invasion with a stabbing pain in his chest. Darkness obstructed his vision, and he lacked confidence in his own senses that he had truly even opened his eyes. His disoriented mind raced as he made an attempt to bring his thoughts into order, and when he contracted his muscles in an ineffective bid to sit up he was struck with a devastating ache that seemed to ravage his entire body. His wrists were locked behind his back, twisting his shoulder awkwardly and making any endeavor to position himself upright significantly more difficult. Sputtering against more blood which continued to ooze down his throat from some injury in his mouth, he mustered as much nerve as he could and eventually was able to heave himself up to on his elbow, and then fully upright. His eyesight was still blurry, but with time his vision began to adjust to the blackness that surrounded him, and he tried to make sense of where he was and how he came into such misery.

He first recalled the merciless grip of the lasso around his neck, slowly tightening with every arduous breath as he pleaded for Christine’s forgiveness in what he thought were his final moments on this Earth. The memory was disturbingly vivid yet incomplete, as his next thought was of being forcibly led through stone passageways, urged on by the same spectre which had orchestrated his previous torture. He had struggled against each step, both for fear of the destination and the incessant desire to stop and crumple wearily to the ground. But the ghost persisted in a single-minded intensity that easily overpowered his battered body and weakened resolve, and they soon arrived in the place Raoul found himself now imprisoned.

The cell was spacious but completely barren, apart from a bucket in the far corner behind him. The only feature worth noting was a single door which shut him off from the corridor outside, fashioned with old but sturdy looking hardware. A small barred window was set into it at eye level, but it had been shuttered closed from the outside. Raoul carefully slid his legs beneath himself and shakily rose to his feet only to find the task both pointless and far too taxing given his condition. He shuffled sideways and as his shoulder made contact with the wall he sunk back downwards, pressing his forehead against the damp stone.

He hoped it would be some time before his captor returned to torment him again. When the Phantom hurled him into this cell Raoul pleaded against his better judgment that the ghost was done with him, having nearly strangled him to death not long ago and cursed him throughout their entire journey to the dungeon. But Raoul now remembered the moments after his arrival distinctly, his injuries pulsing in recollection.

_“Pestilent boy!” The Phantom snarled as he pushed Raoul through the doorway, causing him to tumble forward and skid onto his knees from the force. “You wretched burden of a man, I should have put an end to you long ago.”_

_Raoul shook his head, desperately trying to find some clarity in his disoriented mind. “Chr-Christine would have known it was you. She would have hated you even more than she does now.” He panted, gulping down the precious air he so desperately needed._

_His back was turned to the Phantom, and thus did not see the fire ignite in the ghost’s eyes before the older man lunged forward. He caught the Vicomte’s head and slammed it against the back wall of the cell, pinning him still as his other hand reached for the knife in his back pocket. The Phantom swung the blade open and pressed the flat side against Raoul’s exposed cheek so forcibly that the sharp tip drew blood._

_“You will not speak of her!” He wailed directly into Raoul’s ear, shaking the boy’s head by a fistful of hair. “She is mine, you loathsome little idiot! She said as much while you dangled by your pretty little neck!”_

_“Kill me if you must, Monsieur!” Raoul snapped in return, invoking the last of his strength to counter the Phantom’s rage. “But know that Christine will never be yours, no matter how you proceed.”_

_The Phantom growled ferociously and violently yanked Raoul backwards by his hair, throwing him to the ground again in a wild frenzy. “Do not tempt me, Monsieur! I would send you to the gates of hell piece by piece if I had my way.” He took a step forward and caught Raoul’s chest under his foot. “But my dear betrothed maintains some affection for you, and so I must resist.”_

_Raoul turned his head and spat out the blood that had begun to collect in his mouth. “Whatever she may have promised you, her heart was not in it.” He rasped, fighting back the tears which threatened to expose how truly afraid he was. “She loves me.”_

_The Phantom’s deformed lips trembled and exposed his teeth like a feral beast. In a savage eruption of anger he removed his foot from Raoul’s chest, only to ruthlessly pummel the man with a torrent of kicks to his ribs. Raoul cowered and first tried to withdraw by squirming backwards, but soon finding this unproductive he pulled his knees up and attempted to curl himself into a ball. Seeing this, the Phantom knelt down and seized the young man by the head again, exposing his face so that he could align it with his fist. He threw a single punch, which immediately knocked Raoul back into oblivion._

Raoul attempted to twist his wrists free from the tight shackles to no avail. He thought if only he could have his hands free that the constant ache that engulfed him would be at least somewhat bearable, but contorted the way he was he could find no comfort. He scooted back into the corner of the cell opposite the bucket and rested his throbbing head in the crevice, closing his eyes to the dismal prison.

A vision of Christine appeared to him behind his weary eyes, frightened and alone. Since the Phantom had left him he had surely returned to his lair to torment her, and Raoul was washed away with guilt at the thought of his lover cornered by the monstrous man as he sat here helplessly. Not only was he in no position to protect her, but as the Phantom’s captive he was most certainly being used as leverage against poor Christine, the promise of his life the sole motivation for her to remain true to her word that she would be his bride.

There was nothing he could do now but wait for the madman to return to him. Perhaps to beat him again, or maybe to kill him. Raoul knew when he ventured down below in pursuit of his love that he may not escape alive, but now he was not so sure that there was any other way that this adventure could end, despite the Phantom’s claims otherwise.

It was possible that enough time had passed that his absence above ground had been noticed, but who might be so courageous- or foolhardy, he confessed to himself- to attempt to rescue him? The policemen he had hired to patrol the opera house during the ill-fated production earlier that night were likely far too busy dealing with the death of Piangi to search for him in the underground labyrinth, and the chant of the mob had faded away behind him as he had journeyed beyond the third cellar, its members too frightened to risk their own lives to fight a ghost. And besides Christine, the only other person who might miss him enough to take action was his brother Philippe.

A part of him hoped that Philippe would come to find him, being the dutiful and protective older brother that he was, but Raoul did not put much faith in that eventuality. He and his brother had been stuck in a cycle of arguments for months now, ever since Raoul had announced to his older sibling his intention to marry his dear Christine, a woman of the stage and unremarkable social status. Philippe hassled him about the family’s reputation and common decency while Raoul rolled his eyes at his brother’s hypocrisy, bringing up the Comte's well known relationship with a certain prima ballerina. Their squabbles always ended with one of them walking away in a huff, though they would eventually start speaking to each other again and continue to live their lives under the same roof, knowing they only bothered to fight at all because they each held a deep love for the other. But still Raoul did not believe that Philippe would come to find him here, but rather would think that he had fled with Christine after the Opera Populaire descended into chaos.

Given his presumptions, Raoul gave way to the thought that he would likely meet his end here in the underground catacombs of the opera house- the opera house where he had found both his greatest joy and worst nightmare in such small window of his short life. But if he was to die here at the hands of the Phantom, he would do so with all of the dignity that he had been taught a man of his position should hold. He would look the bastard in the eyes as the light left his own, and he would be brave to his final breath. If he could not protect Christine, he could at least fight to stay strong to the very end, especially if it was for her.


	5. Chapter 5

Activities at the Chagny residence carried on as they would any other morning. As the sun rose so did the household, bustling quietly in the lower house as meal preparations for the day were started, the fires in the hearths of the family’s most occupied rooms lit, and the staff began their many chores for the maintenance of the grand estate. The Comte de Chagny’s valet knocked on his master’s bedroom door, and after a brief pause opened it with the intent to wake the gentleman as he did every morning. He was surprised to find the Comte already out of bed, sitting up in one of the plush upholstered chairs by the fireplace. The gentleman slowly looked up from the book in his lap, peering at his valet past drooping eyelids as he gradually straightened his shoulders out of the slumped position they had devolved into.

“Monsieur le Comte, good morning.” the valet stuttered out. “My apologies, sir, I did not think you would be out of bed already.”

“I did not sleep well.” Philippe answered, closing the book. He uncrossed his legs and leaned his head back to stare at the ceiling. “Has there been any word? Has my brother returned yet?”

The valet shook his head and approached the wardrobe to begin assembling his master’s clothes for the day. “Nothing, I am afraid. The coachman maintains that he did not see your brother leave the opera house, although he claims that he waited until not a soul remained inside.”

“He may have hired another coach, to keep me off of his trail.” Philippe proposed. “Though I still do not know why he would leave his trunk.”

“It is strange indeed, Monsieur. Though your brother, if I may be so bold, has been known to be a bit of a rare bird, especially as of late.”

Philippe had the thought to be offended on behalf of his brother for a moment, however he could not argue that Raoul didn’t have a peculiar streak, and his behavior most recently certainly did not help. He was so much like their mother had been, with seemingly endless wonder and an insatiable appetite for affection which lasted well beyond his childhood. Their father had insisted before he passed that a few years in the navy would level the boy’s disposition, although when the time came and Raoul returned from his first foray into adulthood Philippe could not help but laugh at how true to himself his brother had stayed. He had made many new friends both on the ship and at the ports where they had docked, and had even been so deeply inspired by the beauty of the sea to take up writing poetry. His curiosity made him well read and easily able to adapt to new situations, and his intense desire to be loved made him charming and compelled him to show kindness to everyone.

It was of little surprise then to Philippe when so shortly after his arrival in Paris that Raoul had proclaimed that he was in love, though Philippe would soon be disappointed to learn that the object of his brother’s desire was not a woman the family would approve of. Philippe had tried to nudge his brother away from the thought of marrying the girl, but Raoul did not take kindly to any disparaging remarks about the singer.

Their disputes over Raoul’s future came to a head one night after Raoul returned from the masquerade ball held to celebrate the new year at the Opera Populaire, an event which Philippe was happy to remain far away from, opting instead to treat his mistress to a night out across town when prying eyes would not disturb them. His brother had taken on the responsibility of the family’s patronage with enthusiasm and thus was the face of their generous financing, though Philippe knew the main draw for the young man was most definitely the pretty Swedish soprano.

Raoul had stormed into the foyer of their home that night in an uncharacteristically outraged state, cursing about ghosts and extortion as he stripped himself of his fanciful costume in front of an audience of their speechless servants. He began giving orders to every staff member he could trap into making eye contact with him, demanding preparations be made for a swift and permanent departure from Paris for himself and Mademoiselle Daaé. Philippe regretted not taking the initiative to force his brother to sit down and fully explain himself and his troubles now that he was missing. Instead he dismissed Raoul’s hysterics as the tantrum of a young man consumed by stress and lust, reprimanding him in front of the entire household and sending him away to his bedroom like a child. Raoul never seemed to fully regain his composure after that night, and all he knew now was that Raoul had left home the previous afternoon to attend the premiere of a new opera, that yet another body was found hanging from the rafters of the opera’s stage, and that his brother had not yet come home. Philippe had spent a restless night juggling his worry that something may have indeed happened to Raoul, or that perhaps he had finally made his escape into the countryside with his bride as he had promised.

When Philippe had finished dressing he sent away his valet with a request for a strong pot of coffee. No sooner had the door to his bedroom shut did another knock fall upon it, and Philippe heaved a tiresome sigh before calling out for the nuisance to show themselves in. The footman stepped inside, bowing his head to the gentleman before relaying his message.

“Monsieur le Comte, there is a visitor who wishes to speak with you.”

Falling into his chair by the fireplace, Philippe muttered a curse to himself and waved the man off with a dismissive hand. “I am not interested in entertaining visitors now. Tell them to come back at a more respectable hour.”

The footman did not turn to leave. “I’m sorry, sir. They asked me to tell you that the matter is urgent.”

Philippe pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, then with a deliberate show of irritation groaned and pushed himself to his feet. “Fine. Show them to the front sitting room. I will make an appearance shortly.”

After an intentionally slow and meandering stroll across the estate, Philippe arrived at the front of the house to find a stranger waiting for him. The man stood like a statue by the window, only slightly taller than Philippe but at least a decade or so advanced in age, dressed in a fine suit with a tight fitting embroidered cap on his head. He had a mysterious air about him, and Philippe thought for a moment that he recognized the man from a description Raoul had given him of an eccentric Persian man who seemed to haunt the halls of the Opera Populaire. The man turned his attention to Philippe as soon as he noticed him, swiftly dropping his eyes from the landscape of the front garden to greet the Comte eagerly.

“Monsieur le Comte de Chagny.” the man addressed him as he tipped his head and gestured with his hand. “I am glad to find you at home, I have a serious matter of which I am obliged to inform you.”

Philippe crossed to the settee in the center of the room and leaned back into it listlessly. “So I have been told. What is this vital news that I must receive before I so much as have a whiff of my morning coffee?”

The strange man did not waste any time. “Monsieur, I believe your brother the Vicomte to be in grave danger, if he has not been eliminated already.”

“Eliminated?” Philippe repeated, his lethargy suddenly carried away on a wind of panic. “Monsieur, explain yourself! Where is my brother? How did you come upon this information?”

“I fear we may not have the time to sit and chat, however I will tell you what I know on our way to the opera house.” The Persian man insisted, already making his way to the door.

“If you honestly believe my brother to be in peril, you should have informed the police.” Philippe sputtered, jolting to his feet once more. “I am no soldier, I cannot be running off to rescue anyone from some unknown menace.”

The Persian turned back to the older Chagny brother and gave him an agitated glare. “The police will only complicate matters. Should Erik feel at all threatened I fear he will do something rash, your brother likely to pay. No, I came to you because this crisis requires a delicate touch, and I believe your relationship with your brother may be the key to rescuing both him and Mademoiselle Daaé.”

“Who is Erik?” Philippe questioned, his head muddled with feelings of tiredness and confusion.

“A man very familiar with suffering.” The Persian answered. “Please, Monsieur, we must go now. Call for your carriage and I will tell you what I know on the way.”

Unable to come up with a counter argument, Philippe conceded to the man’s pleas and followed the Persian from the estate, snatching up his hat and coat as he hurried out the front door. He said a desperate prayer for Raoul’s health as the carriage rushed into motion and the Persian began to describe the journey ahead of them, dreading the thought that his little brother may have already met his end at the hands of this mysterious Erik.


	6. Chapter 6

Erik fiddled with the arrangement of the table he had set up in the kitchen. His original plan had been to serve an exquisite meal to Christine, having spent a good portion of the day before assembling it. He was not a terrible cook, he had in fact made a very nice turtle soup for the occasion with which he was quite pleased, but for the main course he had acquired two plates worth of braised lamb and roasted root vegetables prepared in one of the finer establishments in the city. He had intended to warm and serve the food immediately after he brought Christine down to his home following the conclusion of the premiere of his opera. He had thought that Christine would have been so enamored with his performance, having replaced that talentless boar Piangi in the third act of his masterpiece, that once he revealed himself to her she would see how truly magnificent he was, and follow him with passionate adoration into their new life together.

Unfortunately Erik made the fatal error of underestimating the hold the young Vicomte had on his dear Christine. He had mostly ignored the threats of the little gentleman, believing that there were no schemes the boy could possibly contrive that could stand a chance to throw his plans off kilter. He had been correct in a way; the police that had been hired to patrol the opera house were laughably incompetent, and he had no trouble evading them in his endeavor to capture and incapacitate Piangi to make his debut on stage. To his astonishment it had been Christine herself who had thwarted him, revealing his identity to the entire crowd and exposing his greatest shame to the world as he made an impassioned declaration of love to her in a vain attempt to regain control.

Christine was not to blame for such a wicked transgression, he rationalized now as he arranged a vase with sprigs of wispy spring greenery and delicate blooms. While he had been hard at work overseeing the details of his opera and planning for his new bride’s arrival, the Vicomte de Chagny had been meticulously planting seeds of doubt in Christine’s impressionable mind. Erik scowled at the thought of the young man charming his way into Christine’s heart, making promises to her which he would inevitably break. He was young, inexperienced in the world with likely no idea of who he even was himself apart from what others told him, constantly coddled by his family’s fortune whose only legacy was to convince him that he was somehow better than the rest of the population. The future he offered Christine was one of domestic misery, where she would be bound to wither away in isolation, devoid of beauty and passion. Whatever vows he might have whispered into Christine’s ear, Erik was certain that the Vicomte would never be able to give Christine the life she truly deserved; a life full of purpose where she would shine as a beacon of singular perfection as his muse and partner, showered in adoration and forever reveling in artistic bliss.

Erik was pulled away from his anxious rearranging of the small table by the incessant mewing of his cat Ayesha, who had slunk down from her perch on the high cabinets to wrap herself around his legs. He sighed and leaned down to pick her up, carrying her with him to the icebox. He set her down and pulled out a small bowl of chicken scraps from the lower shelf, setting it down on the floor before her. The cat gave the bowl a few tentative sniffs before turning up her nose, meowing at Erik before walking away.

“Not good enough for you, my love?” He muttered as he watched her leap back up to the cabinets by way of the counter, her tail sticking up straight like a flagpole. She chirped in response before disappearing through a hole in the stone wall, likely off to catch a meal that would better suit her fine tastes. Erik rolled his eyes and replaced the bowl into the icebox, then returned to the table.

The tablecloth was wrinkled and the candles were burning unevenly, but he conceded that he had fussed too much with everything and the food was starting to get cold. He stepped out of the kitchen and made his way to the bedroom where Christine was now waiting for him, stopping in the washroom in the hallway to slick back his hair and adjust his mask over his disfigurement. His favorite mask had been left abandoned on the stage, and the one he wore now was not nearly as flattering. The nose was too large and the bottom edge had a chip in the porcelain, but it would have to serve for now until he had the time to retrieve the one he had lost. With a final nod of encouragement to himself, Erik turned from his image in the mirror and approached Christine’s bedroom door, knocking on it with three solid rasps.

He heard stirring inside, and soon Christine appeared before him, now fully dressed in one of the gowns he had purchased in town for her. She was so lovely in blush-tones, the deep color of the dress complimenting her naturally flushed skin. Her long hair was pulled back now, revealing the soft contours of her neck and allowing him to fully see the shape of her face. A slight frown pulled down at the corners of her lips, but the fear from her eyes had mostly been extinguished. Whether these developments came from her realizing that she was in no danger here or by exhaustion alone Erik was uncertain, but still he was glad for it.

Erik offered his hand. “Dinner is ready.” He spoke as evenly as he could in an attempt to disguise how taken he was with her.

She eyed his hand for a brief moment then brought up her own and laid it in his. Erik guided her to the kitchen and pulled a chair back for her in front of the nearest place setting, watching her closely as she took in all of the preparations he had made. Her expression remained unchanged as she sat and folded her hands into her lap, while Erik uncovered the soup crock and began to ladle the steaming broth into her bowl.

“I should hope everything is to your liking.” He broke the silence after filling his own bowl. “The cuisine may not be what you are familiar with, but I think you will enjoy it.”

Christine only looked up from her bowl briefly before her eyes fell back down again. Undeterred, Erik moved to pour a glass of wine for each of them before taking his seat across from her, pausing to see if Christine would offer any sort of indication that she was interested in participating in the meal. She remained still, and so Erik picked up his glass and took a long drink.

After a few more moments of silence, Erik set down his glass. “You may eat, unless you wish to pray first.” He suggested, feeling his patience beginning to dwindle. This was not at all how he had envisioned his first dinner with her and his disappointment was slowly beginning to eat away at him. He was so tired of their relationship being one-sided despite his lavish efforts, and though he knew her behavior was the result of the meddling of others he was struggling to tamp down his growing frustration

Finally Christine lifted her eyes and spoke. “I have prayed enough today, Angel.” she said in a quiet voice. “Forgive me, I am so tired from all of the excitement.”

Her words softened Erik’s heart and he settled slightly. “I understand, my dear. It has been a long day.” He concurred, satisfied as she reached for her spoon and took a small sip of the soup he had labored to prepare. He sat up in his chair and adjusted the waistcoat he had changed into for dinner in an attempt to appear composed. “I should like that you would call me by my actual name from now on.”

“Your name?” Christine answered with raised eyebrows, as though she was shocked by the prospect. “I did not think you had one.”

Erik chuckled lightly at the absurd prospect. “Of course I have a name, I simply prefer to keep it to myself.” He explained. Erik was well aware of the power names could hold, and how his lack of a given name made those who encountered him almost subconsciously uncomfortable, as though he was a ghost unbound by the laws of this realm. By his lack of identity he had been able to craft the mystifying persona of the Angel of Music, a ruse with which he was thoroughly pleased as it had allowed him to gain the trust of the flighty soprano he had come to love so profoundly.

“Now that you are to become my wife,” he continued, “you may call me Erik.”

Christine set down her spoon and gazed at him, although Erik was unable to interpret her expression. It was some combination of astonishment and pensive consideration, and it remained on her face as she reached out and took a sip from her glass of wine.

“Erik.” She said eventually, the look on her face mirrored in her hushed tone.

He nodded in response, acutely aware of the tension that hung in the air. Silence followed again as they ate their soup and Erik quickly grew tired of it. Christine had barely eaten half of her bowl when Erik stood, having finished his own, and took the dishes away. “The meat will dry out if it sits in the oven much longer.” He said with his back turned to her, pulling a pair of towels out of one of the kitchen drawers. He opened the door to the oven to retrieve the warmed plates, the smell of their entrées wafting into the small kitchen.

“Erik,” Christine murmured again, her voice trailing as he laid her dish in front of her.

“It’s lamb,” He announced, speaking over her. “You should find it to be quite tender, I made sure that the chef used the finest cut available.”

“I’m not hungry, Erik.”

He had already sat down with his own plate and picked up his cutlery when Christine spoke those words to him, her face once again angled down to the floor. “You have not eaten all day, Christine. Of course you are hungry.”

“No,” She replied swiftly, shaking her head ever so slightly. “I’m not. I- I can’t.”

Erik set down his knife and fork. “And why is that, Christine?” He pressed, setting his lips into a hard line.

She looked up at him through her eyelashes, her eyes once again shimmering with the fear Erik had hoped had gone. “You told me not to speak of it.” she eventually answered. Erik began to draw in a deep breath to respond to her, but Christine interjected before he could. “Please, Erik, you must understand that I cannot just sit here and eat when I do not know what has become of Raoul!”

“He is no longer your concern!” Erik seethed as he pushed himself up to loom over her menacingly. “Time and again I have shown you nothing but my endless devotion and adoration, and still you deny me! And for what?” he raged, slamming his fist down onto the table, shaking the place settings and causing her wine glass to fall and spill its contents onto the tablecloth. “For you to moan and cry for the health of some wanton little shadow of a man?”

“I am not denying you!” Christine contended, leaning forward over the table in opposition. “I promise you, Erik, that I will keep my word. I will stay, I will be your wife, I will give you everything I have and more. But- ”

“But you love him still!” Erik shouted in accusation. “But you will never truly be mine, that is what you wish to tell me, is it not? Whatever feelings you might have for me pale in comparison, and that you would martyr yourself and become the bride of a monster to save your true love?”

“No!” Christine wailed as she stood up in an attempt to gain some ground. “No, that is not at all what I am trying to say, I-”

“What are you trying to say, then? Tell me, Christine, what are your true feelings?” Erik goaded her scornfully, his rage beginning to spill from the corners of his eyes.

Christine seemed to vibrate with emotion as she formed a response. She wavered as she let out a harsh breath, then lifted her chin and locked her eyes with his. “I love you, Erik.”

Erik was not prepared for such an answer. His jaw fell somewhat slack as his mind raced with the words she spoke to him, their echo in his brain almost deafening.

“Say it again.”

“I love you.” she gasped even more emphatically, trying to get her point across. “You are my Angel, Erik. I chose _you_.”

He stared at her for what felt like an eternity for both of them. She continued to whimper out little ragged breaths, staring back at him expectantly. Erik stepped around the table and approached her, slowly raising his hand to caress her cheek. She allowed him to brush away the few languid tears that had dripped down as she closed her eyes, leaning her face into his palm.

_I love you, Christine._ He thought to himself, his own words caught in his throat. He had longed for this moment, for Christine to reciprocate his feelings out loud. The feeling of her face in his hand was somehow even more intimate than the kiss they had shared, and he tried desperately to capture this moment in his mind for fear that it would dissipate too quickly. She did not withdraw from him, but the thought of losing her again disturbed Erik, and he swore to himself that he would do everything in his power to keep her.

Erik dropped his hand suddenly, causing Christine’s eyes to flutter open in surprise. “I will return shortly.” He called back to her as he quickly tread past her and exited the kitchen, making a line for the hallway.

Christine beckoned him to wait but Erik pretended that he did not hear her, shutting the hallway door behind him. She pursued him, opening the door to follow, but he had already disappeared through the revolving passageway at the end of the hall, triggered by a swift kick to one of the stones in the lower corner. Erik heard her call his name again in dismay, but he had set his mind on the task ahead of him already, eager to settle the matter of Christine’s affections once and for all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning:  
This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence.

She wasn’t fast enough. Before she had a chance to grasp what was happening Erik had vanished, flying past her with a manic burst of energy. Christine had followed after him as soon as she realized where he was likely headed, but when she swung open the hallway door she found nothing but the lone sconce flickering on the wall. She ran to the locked door and shook the handle, but finding it fixed as ever she abandoned courtesy and slammed her fists against the solid wood.

“Erik!” she screamed, hoping that her voice might penetrate both the door and Erik’s frenzied mind. “Erik, come back!”

She carried on for only a short while, quickly coming to terms with the fact that her hollering was serving no purpose but to cause her throat to ache. With a fatigued huff she pressed her forehead against the door and slumped down to her knees, falling against the doorframe into her pile of skirts. Tears stung at her weary eyes again and she let them fall, wiping them limply with the back of her hand. Although Christine wanted to do nothing more than to drift off and wake to find that this whole affair had been nothing but a horrifically intricate nightmare, she forced herself to think of what might come next.

Erik had said he would be back soon. As to where he had run off to in such a flurry or what he was now engaged in she only had one thought, one of which she was dreadfully certain. Raoul was in peril, and yet again it had all been her fault. How foolish it was to bring him up so soon! The conversation had gotten out of hand so quickly, and in her drained condition all of the points she had planned to carefully deliver were swept away in Erik’s emotional hurricane.

What she had told him was not untrue. She loved him. Erik held a very special place in her heart, even though he had earned that place through deceit and calculated manipulation when she had been at her most vulnerable. He had given her hope when no one else was able to, he had listened and soothed her grief-stricken soul with music that emulated the melodies she missed so dearly from her father. She could not deny the feelings she had for him, but she was now also acutely aware of the strings attached to them. When she had told Erik that she loved him she had not considered that ‘love’ had a very different meaning to both of them; Erik’s love was obsessive, unyielding, and ravenous. But for Christine, love was kind. Love was a thoughtful companion who was patient and supportive, even when she wasn’t the best version of herself. Love had many different forms, Christine knew, but that was the problem: Erik did not love her in the way she loved him, and Raoul’s life hung in the balance of that discrepancy.

Christine was still huddled by the locked door when she felt the floor beneath her begin to shake. She laid her palms on the stone to steady herself just as a grinding sound echoed in the small hallway, and as she turned towards the source of the noise she saw the wall with the sconce swing open on its rotating hinge. Christine grabbed at her skirts, tugging them away from the wall as quickly as she could to avoid them being caught in the mechanism of the hidden door. As the wall completed its half revolution Erik emerged from the opposite side, followed closely by Raoul. Erik had the young man tethered by his neck like a dog on a leash with one of his lassos, and Raoul’s hands were still shackled behind his back as Christine had seen them bound hours before. She gawked at them as Erik brushed by her, seemingly unaware of her presence on the floor. It was Raoul who had glanced down and saw her there, coming to an abrupt halt in the hallway and gasping out “Christine!” before Erik’s rope became taut and yanked his eyes off of her.

Erik looked back at his captive and only then did he notice her sitting by the locked door. His exposed features softened under the mask as he looked at her, though his grip on the lasso remained firm. “My dear, what are you doing on the floor?” He cooed sweetly to her, his velvet voice the complete opposite of the rigid posture he held to keep Raoul in line. “Come this way, we have a matter to settle between us.”

Erik did not wait for her response before he tugged at the rope again and led Raoul into the main chamber. Christine scrambled to her feet and chased after them, exiting the hallway in time to see Erik drop the rope and thrust Raoul forward onto his knees in the center of the room. Raoul teetered for a moment, nearly falling forward onto his chin before regaining his balance and scuttling around to face Erik with a defiant look in his eyes. At first he appeared as though he was to speak to Erik, but when he saw Christine again he turned his attention to her.

“Are you alright, Christine?” He sputtered. “Has he hurt you?”

Christine’s heart ached in her chest as she reviewed his sad condition: a thick stream of dried blood painted the left side of his head from where his hair was parted, the flesh around his eye on the same side swollen red and purple. His teeth had a red tinge and his bottom lip was split and bleeding freshly, but still through his obvious pain his blue eyes shined with concern for her.

“I can assure you, she is well.” Erik answered before she could, turning his back to the young man to meet Christine as she stepped onto the carpet. “Quite well, actually. Christine and I had a very interesting conversation over dinner, did we not?” He laid one of his hands on her arm and turned his head to look over his shoulder at Raoul, whose face of concern had contorted into a scowl.

Christine looked away from Raoul and touched Erik’s outstretched forearm with her other hand. “Why did you bring him back here, Erik?” She asked, trying to keep her voice firm. “Have we all not been through enough tonight?”

“It is morning already, my dear!” He said in almost a laugh, placing his other large hand upon her own. “It would seem that matters of the heart do cause time to fly by. But we are not finished here just yet. As I was saying,” he continued as he pulled Christine forward slowly towards Raoul, “Christine and I had an enlightening discussion over dinner, Monsieur.” He patted her hand a few times before carrying on. “Tell the Vicomte what you told me, Christine.”

Raoul stared up at Christine wordlessly, his stillness only interrupted by him licking the blood from his lips between ragged breaths. Erik had them trapped yet again, her only choice to possibly save Raoul from more pain being to break his heart. But after everything he had been through already, was doing so even the compassionate choice? There was no way for either of them to win, she thought grievously, and she could not afford to hesitate any longer.

“I love Erik.” she said simply, not breaking contact with Raoul’s swollen eyes. “I told him that I love him.”

Raoul continued to stare at her, unblinking. “You don’t mean that, Christine.” he whispered, shaking his head slightly.

“You would do well not to call my bride a liar, sir!” Erik shouted, wrenching one of his hands from Christine to point an accusatory finger at the Vicomte. “See how she clings to me, how she listens and obeys me!”

“Erik, please.” Christine interjected, pulling down his arm in an attempt to calm him. “I have done as you asked.”

“Indeed you have, my love.” he replied, turning to her with a softer tone. “But I must ask you to do one thing more. The Vicomte is still of the belief that you belong to him.” He looked back at Raoul. “Renounce your engagement to the boy, so that we may finally be rid of him.”

The thought of rejecting Raoul so blatantly hit Christine like a punch to the stomach. But Erik had a wild, malicious energy swirling around him, and Christine feared what he might do if she denied him. Raoul offered no words again, likely because he knew that anything he might think to say would only earn him another beating, or possibly put Christine at risk. Although it cut Christine to the bone, she took a step towards Raoul to deliver the final blow.

She tried to form the words in her mouth but they caught in her throat, and in an attempt to stall for time she turned back to Erik. “Could you at least unbind his hands?” She entreated, praying that she might have earned at least the slightest bit of his trust. “If I am to formally bid him farewell, I should like him to at least have his dignity.”

Erik contemplated her request, and after a long moment he conceded. “Such a gentle soul you are, my love.” He said, reaching into the small pocket of his silk waistcoat to retrieve the screw-like key. He held it out to her and addressed Raoul pointedly. “Should you try anything, Monsieur, there will be consequences.”

Erik took a few steps back and observed as Christine knelt behind Raoul and worked at the locks of the shackles with quivering hands, slowly cranking the key until Raoul was able to wiggle himself out of the first cuff. Christine saw that his freed wrist was red and raw from rubbing against the metal as he pulled it away in front of himself. She reached for his other arm to release him fully, but before she could Raoul spun around and pulled her into his arms, embracing her so forcefully that the air was pushed from her lungs.

“I love you, Christine.” he heaved, brushing his bloodied lips against her ear. “No matter what happens, I will always love you.” He pressed a firm kiss onto her cheek then buried his face into her neck.

Aghast, Christine could not will herself to hug Raoul back. She looked up at Erik, ready to see him seething with rage, only to find him watching her intently. He was waiting.

Raoul did not loosen his grip, and Christine felt each of his arduous breaths as he leaned into her. She slowly brought her hands around him, one on either side, and pushed on his chest to make him release her from his arms.

“Raoul,” she started as he lifted his head, the dried blood on his cheek now chipped and smudged away. “I cannot marry you.” she stated, pressing her lips together in a futile attempt to hold back tears. She looked over Raoul’s shoulder to see Erik still watching closely. “I will not marry you.” She clarified, seeing Erik lift his chin in silent approval.

“I hear you, Christine.” Raoul answered, his hands now resting on her waist. “You made your decision, but,” He said, his voice regaining some of its normal vigor. “I can’t let you do this.”

“You must!” Christine hissed sharply, rattling him in her weak grasp. She lowered her voice and begged him. “Please, I am trying to save your life, Raoul. If you love me, if you truly love me, you will let me go.”

“No,” he declared, shaking his head rebelliously. “No, I’d rather die here than let him take you.”

“That can be arranged, boy.”

Raoul was suddenly pulled to his feet by Erik, dragged upwards by the loop of the lasso which still hung around his neck. He slipped away from Christine’s hold before she could protest and was marched back a few steps, his free hands groping at the rope much like the first time he was strung up in the lair.

“I warned you, Monsieur, not to try anything.” Erik asserted, tilting his head to take in the sight of the struggling young man. “Your words have consequences, and I will not be insulted in my own home.”

Christine staggered forward, painfully aware of how Erik had yet again betrayed her. “Stop, Erik! Please, this cannot continue!” She shrilled. “I have been nothing but faithful to you, and you promised-”

“I promised _nothing_!” Erik’s voice ripped through the air like a bolt of lightning. “You alone have made promises! You vowed to be my bride, you said you loved me. I gave you one final chance to renounce this fool, I put my faith in you and you have forsaken me again!” Christine saw tears flowing from Erik’s eyes as he screamed at her, falling from under his mask onto his shirt. “Tell me now, Christine, do you love me?”

Christine did not hesitate. “I love you!” She called back.

“And do you love him?” Erik jerked Raoul violently back with the lasso, causing Raoul to cough and sputter up red. The heavy shackles still dangled from his right wrist, striking him on the chest as he was jostled around like a doll.

She opened her mouth to respond, only to huff and let out a few shaky gasps.

Her response was enough to send Erik reeling. With a swift kick to the back of his knee he bowed Raoul forward onto his hands, while simultaneously holding back on the rope to force the Vicomte’s chin up towards the rocky ceiling of the cavern.

“Do you still love him?” Erik bellowed again, watching Christine as she opened and closed her mouth like a fish. He did not wait for her reply before he crashed his elbow down into the center of Raoul’s back, forcing him to flop down painfully onto his stomach. Raoul gasped and moaned as the lasso loosened for a moment, only to be tightened again as Erik readjusted his grip. The older man stepped forward and deliberately caught Raoul’s left hand under his boot as it was laid out flat on the uneven ground, and gradually began to lean into his stance. “Answer me, Christine!”

Christine felt her stomach turn at the sight of the vicious attack, but before she could spit out a response Raoul let out a gruesome scream as his fingers were crushed under Erik’s heel. A horrid crunching sound followed as Erik twisted his foot and eventually lifted it away, and Christine pulled her hands up to her mouth to stop herself from retching at the sight of the mangled hand.

“Erik!” She gagged over the sound of Raoul’s agonized sobs. “Stop, please, I can’t do this anymore, I can’t! I can’t-”

Erik had begun to kneel down beside his victim, likely to find some new way to torture the young man, when a loud banging echoed into the cavern. It caused him to pause and look behind himself, his visible eyebrow furrowed with confusion. Christine followed the trail of his eyes to the hallway, then locked her eyes back onto Erik as he moved to stand. With the pressure released from his neck, Raoul rolled over onto his side, weeping freely as he clutched his wrecked hand against his chest. The pounding from the hallway continued.

“Don’t move.” Erik ordered as he walked towards the hall with purpose. “Or next time I will break his neck.” He disappeared into the small passage, and Christine heard the sound of a key fitting into a lock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Click here](https://ofbeautsandbeasts.tumblr.com/post/622581383419871236/this-is-a-scene-from-faded-floralss-phanphic) for a stunning drawing by ofbeautsandbeasts of a scene from this chapter, and be sure to follow them on Tumblr!


	8. Chapter 8

It had been years since Raoul had last experienced such excruciating pain. He had been an eager yet inexperienced sailor, with only a few months of being out on the open water under his belt. By order of a more seasoned crewman he had climbed the main mast to assist in the setting of a lower sail and had shimmied out across one of the foot ropes to secure the gaskets. One of the coiled ropes had become undone and while he tried to bring it back together he made the mistake of leaning back too far and fell almost four meters to the deck below, his arm tangling in the loose rope he had been trying to tame. The rope pulled his arm up as he fell and dislocated his shoulder before he landed, and he recalled that the searing pain in his shoulder was far more agonizing than any of his other injuries from the impact of the fall. His arm was set back into place quickly by the ship’s doctor, but the ferocious pain had remained for weeks afterwards, and he was no longer permitted to climb the masts for the remainder of that journey.

His shoulder had healed fairly well and only hurt him occasionally, the present moment being one of those times, as he had spent hours with his arms unnaturally contorted behind his back. However it was nothing compared to the unbearable pain he was experiencing now in his hand as he clenched his mutilated fingers in shock. He could feel that his middle and ring fingers had taken most of the damage, and though he could hardly bear to look at them he thought he saw a bit of his bone peeking through the middle one. His other hand slipped on the blood that spilled down his wrist as he gripped it tightly, and he felt his fingers pulsing from the trauma.

He had been so focused on his hand that he had not noticed that the Phantom- or Erik, as Christine had called him earlier- had left the room. His attention was pulled away from his injury when Christine suddenly knelt down beside him, laying one of her small hands on his shoulder, the other, still clutching the shackle key, hovering over his bloodied extremity.

“Oh, Raoul!” She whimpered as he strained to sit up. “My poor Raoul, look at what I’ve done to you!” She pulled at his right wrist and fit the key into the lock of the remaining handcuff, unscrewing it as quickly as she was able.

“_He_ did this to me, not you.” Raoul countered vehemently. His speech was punctuated by distressed snorts and gasps, but he still made a point to capture Christine’s eyes away from his crippled fingers. “You are not responsible for what he has done.”

Christine heaved a frustrated sigh, dropping the unlocked cuffs as she pulled them free from his raw skin. “It’s my fault that you are here at all!” she moaned, sinking back to sit on her legs in defeat. “I should have listened to you, in the days after the masquerade ball. You wanted to leave but I begged you to stay. I was so foolish to think that I could convince him not to hurt you.”

“If you must blame one of us, blame me. It was my idea to play his game.” Raoul mumbled. “I thought I could protect you, but he has always been two steps ahead of me. Had I not pushed you to sing, he would not have had the opportunity-”

“No,” Christine cut him off bitterly. “he would have found some other way to steal me away, I know it.” Her eyes fell back down to his broken hand. “We have to wrap that in something, you’ve bled so much already.” Christine twisted around to see if there was anything that might be of use to bandage his hand, but apart from the heavy pink fabric of her gown there was nothing readily available.

“The kitchen,” Raoul offered, nudging his head in the direction of the archway. “There may be something there.”

Christine nodded and stood up quickly, glancing at the door to the hallway where Erik had run through just before. It was possible that he could reappear at any moment, but Christine accepted the risk and rushed away through the arch to rummage for something to bind Raoul’s bleeding appendage.

As he waited for her to come back to him, Raoul’s attention was captured by the shape of a small creature that appeared from a hole atop one of the tall bookshelves near the path to the kitchen. It slunk out of the crevice in the cave wall, purposeful in its direction, and as it hopped down to a lower shelf, then to a small table, Raoul was able to discern that the critter was a beautiful siamese cat with large, ocean blue eyes. It held a dead rodent in its mouth, a rat that looked startlingly large compared to the slender, pretty little cat that had apparently caught it for breakfast. The cat jumped down and waltzed past him, trilling gently in acknowledgement of him before turning the corner down the hallway.

Christine finally returned with a pair of tightly woven tea towels, crisp and white with thick cotton fringe dangling from the ends. As she wrapped the cloths around Raoul’s hand they soaked up the blood greedily, and he cringed when she pulled them snug over the broken bones of his fingers.

“Try to put some pressure on it, to stop the bleeding.” She said as he tried to wipe off the blood from his uninjured hand onto the outer layers of the makeshift bandage. “When he gets back, I could try to tell Erik that you need to see a doctor…”

“What makes you think you’ll be able to get through to him?” Raoul snipped, his eyes narrowed in disgust. “You heard him, he said he would kill me if you so much as moved while he was gone. He won’t listen to reason.”

“What do you want me to do, then? Sit back and say nothing?” She retaliated in exasperation, brushing away a few wayward strands of hair that had fallen out of the ribbon that held her mass of curls behind her head.

“See that lever over there, on the wall?” Raoul pointed behind her with his unbound hand, beyond the grand organ that stood tall against the rocky cavern wall. “He pulled that one to lift the portcullis to let me in. I want you to hit that lever, go to the boat and get as far away from here as you can. I’ll try to stop him from following you.”

Christine’s jaw fell open in horror. “Have you lost your mind?” She rebuked, looking back over her shoulder again at the hallway door. It was still open, but thankfully no noises came from the chambers beyond. “I am not going to leave you here!”

“You must, Christine. I will fight him if I have too.” Raoul asserted, his poor condition betraying his gallant declaration. “In the best case I will swim back across the lake and meet you on the surface, in the worst I will at least buy you enough time to get help.” He looked away from her then to anxiously glance at the hallway door as Christine had. “Please, you must go now.”

“No!” Christine objected forcefully, laying her hand on his knee to shake him angrily.

“I don’t understand you!” Raoul bemoaned in frustration. “Minutes ago you would not even say you loved me, and now you have the chance to be free of this prison but you insist on clinging to my side.”

“You would have been murdered before my eyes had I said anything!” Christine hissed back with the same energy. “But if you must hear me say it: I love _you_. I chose to stay because I love you, and I would rather die a little every day for the rest of my life than have your death on my hands.”

Raoul swallowed hard and rested his damaged hand on hers, his other holding the tea towels down securely. “Then you were lying when you said you loved him.”

“We’ve talked about this, Raoul, it is not so simple.”

“But love, Christine! Never before have you said you loved him!” Raoul blurted out, pulling his hands away. “He was your teacher, fine. I tried to be understanding when you called him your friend, even after you learned of how he has deliberately antagonized nearly every person to walk through the opera’s doors for years. But _love_? Love for a man who has murdered innocents? Who has kidnapped you more than once? Who gives you impossible ultimatums he probably wouldn’t even bat an eye at betraying?” His eyes filled with tears as he censured her, their drips down his face clearing paths through the dirt and blood on his cheeks.

Christine tried to diffuse the growing tension between them. “I don’t want to get into this now.” she insisted, her voice meager and wavering. “But he has no one, Raoul. Apart from his love for me he is completely alone, he has no one else in this world.”

“I still don’t see how that could give you reason to love him.” Raoul sniffed, shaking his head. “Though I suppose it does not matter what I think now, as I will be dead as soon as he returns. I should ask that you at least entreat him to return my body to my estate for burial, for the sake of my family.”

“Stop with that!” Christine scolded him now, crying again herself. She crawled forward to him and moved her face close to his, laying her hands on his shoulders. “You are not going to die here. Listen to me: whatever feelings I have for Erik do not negate those I have for you. I am willing to do whatever I must to get you out of here, just as I know you would for me. Right now even you must agree that you are in far more danger, so please, help me to help you.”

Raoul stared at her keenly and remained silent for a moment as he absorbed her words. Eventually he gulped and nodded sadly in surrender. “Alright, Christine.” He said softly, moving his right hand to rest on her waist. “I trust you.”

Christine leaned into him and wrapped her arms around his neck gingerly, careful not to press too hard for fear of aggravating one of his many injuries. He reciprocated by curling his arm around her, moving his broken hand out of the way to pull her close to him. They held each other briefly, her cheek pressing down onto his aching shoulder until he pulled away just far enough to catch her lips with his. She kissed him back without hesitation, one of her hands drifting up to weave into his dirty hair. Raoul felt a small gust of relief rush through him, and for a fleeting moment he forgot all of the pains in his body and felt nothing but her.

They separated slowly, breaths hitching as they pulled back from each other. Raoul thought of giving in to his intense desire to grab her again and draw her back close to himself, but before he could act the sound of voices rose from the open door to the hallway. Christine lurched to her feet and stumbled back to the place she had been when Erik had left them, brushing down her skirt as she turned to face the hall.

Erik stepped through the doorway purposefully, though only just enough to make himself visible to them. “See, as I told you. They are both alive.” He gestured widely to them, looking back to some hidden figure in the corridor. “If you are quite satisfied, Daroga, I ask that you make yourself scarce.”

“Erik, this is madness!” The man called Daroga exclaimed as he tread past Erik into the main room. “Look at the Vicomte, he appears as though he has just crawled out of the grave!” He turned back to Erik and angrily shook his finger in the ghost’s face. “This cannot go on. I am taking them back to the Comte, and we will finish our discussion once they are safely out of the cellars.”

“The Comte?” Christine echoed in astonishment.

“Philippe!” Raoul gushed, unable to withhold his excitement, though he was thoroughly confused by the sudden turn of events. He recognized the strange Persian man from around the Opera, but how he was connected to the Phantom or why he had taken such a risk to bring his brother here to rescue them he was completely befuddled by. He did not bother to linger in his bewilderment however, and frantically tried to push himself up to stand.

“You will be taking them nowhere, Daroga.” Erik proclaimed with fierce certainty, stepping between the Persian’s line of sight to Christine and Raoul. “I do not wish to harm you, old friend, but I will not let you meddle in my affairs.”

The Persian began to loudly chastise Erik, but his words fell short at the sound of more commotion from the chambers beyond the hallway. A loud crash of metal against stone was followed by the floor vibrating and the distant noise of rushing water. Erik turned back over his shoulder and heaved an exasperated sigh before a terrified scream echoed from beyond the corridor. The Persian cursed and shot Erik a resentful look before running back into the hallway.

“That sounded like Philippe!” Raoul said in a panic, finally staggering to his feet. Christine hurried to him and caught him in her arms before he could topple over. Looking up, Raoul saw Erik scowling at them, his eyes sharp with hate.

Before Erik could say anything to them, the Persian’s voice hollered back to them from beyond the doorway. “Erik! Come here at once!”

There appeared to be fire behind Erik’s golden eyes, but instead of charging at them he turned on his heel and stomped back down the hallway, following the Persian’s authoritative roar. Raoul looked down at Christine, who bore a good portion of his weight to keep him upright, and she stared back up at him knowingly.

“Come on.” She urged, helping him walk forward as quickly as possible. “We have to catch up.”

Raoul wavered as the blood rushed to his head and blurred his vision slightly, but the fear of Philippe falling into the Phantom’s hands frightened him so deeply that he pressed on. With Christine guiding them, they charged into the hall to find one of the doors swung wide open. The room beyond it was a large bedroom, completely dark apart from the light falling in from the hallway. As they entered and his eyes adjusted, Raoul saw that tucked among the typical bedroom furniture, all of which was finely crafted and well kept, were an array of instruments- a mandolin leaning against a dresser, an antique fiddle laid in its case beside a desk cluttered in papers, a small upright piano pushed against the far wall instead of a bedside table. His focus fell to a hole in the floor, fitted in the space between a tall harp and the desk, which he quickly realized was a trapdoor.

“There!” Raoul pointed out, leading Christine over to the opening. The sound of voices and gushing water coming from the pit confirmed his suspicions that this passage had to be where the Persian and Erik passed through, and would therefore lead him to Philippe.

Christine loosened her grip on his shoulder and knelt down next to the trap door. “I will follow you down.” She said, first peering into the black abyss, then back up at him.

“Are you sure, Christine? I cannot promise we will be safe down there.” Raoul said warily, stooping down beside her. The ladder downward looked sturdy, but there was no way of knowing what waited for them at the bottom.

“Well, we are not safe here either.” She answered definitively, reaching for his unharmed hand. “This may be our chance.”

Raoul took up her hand and squeezed it, breathed in a deep breath, and turned around to begin descending the ladder. He struggled at first, taking a moment to figure out how to climb down with just one hand, but with some careful placement of his elbow and forearm he decided that he would be able to make do. Just before his head dropped below the level of the floor he looked up at Christine, who leaned forward and planted a solid kiss on his lips in encouragement. They pulled apart quickly and he stepped down further, hearing the sounds of clanging metal and arguing voices below him, and the click of Christine’s boots on the ladder as she followed him down.


	9. Chapter 9

Philippe de Chagny was not known to be a patient man. By fortune of his title this trait was not seen so much as a character flaw but a quirk, where the eldest Chagny brother was particularly gifted in quietly excusing himself from situations he found boring or displeasurable in the time it took for onlookers to merely glance away from him. Both his valet and Raoul however found Philippe’s trick of disappearing at the drop of a hat quite bothersome, as locating the older gentleman after he drifted away was often a tedious chore. The Comte was naturally curious, and that paired with a constant need to be stimulated he was compelled to wander in search of new and interesting places and experiences, sometimes ending up far away from where he began. But although Philippe knew that he could be frequently difficult to track down when he would traipse off to appease his wanderlust, he always made his way back to where he needed to be before he could be missed. He had the spirit of a traveller, but he was also well aware of his many responsibilities as the head of one of the oldest noble families in Paris.

Keeping his little brother out of trouble was proving to be one of his more challenging duties. Raoul had not been in Paris a year, yet now Philippe found himself rushing off in the early hours of the morning in the company of an eccentric Persian man to aid in an attempt to free Raoul from the clutches of a sewer-dwelling musician with an inclination for murder, with whom his brother had apparently developed a dangerous rivalry. The Persian man, who had identified himself as Nadir Khan, hastily explained on their journey his relationship with the man named Erik, the general course of events which led the maladjusted composer to steal Mademoiselle Daaé from the stage, and how Raoul had pursued the kidnapper and his beloved down into the cavern below the opera house.

Nadir called for the carriage to drop them by the western entrance to the opera house, but instead of entering into the building through the doors of the porte-cochère he led them back onto the street, keeping careful watch to be sure they were not followed by any nosy bystanders. They arrived at an iron gate wedged between the building and the high walls of the carriage ramp under the porte-cochère, and although the gate appeared to be fixed Nadir pushed and pulled the bars in some secret pattern, lifting the spokes from their locked positions in the pavement which allowed the gate to swing open. He motioned for Philippe to follow, and when they were both inside Nadir shut the gate quickly behind them and guided Philippe to step further into the tunnel. The ambient light from the morning sun barely reached them as they stood at the end of the short pathway, the only way forward down a flight of stone steps around a sharp corner.

“Can you handle yourself with a firearm, Monsieur le Comte?” Nadir inquired as he pulled back his jacket to reveal a long barrel pistol attached at his hip, and another smaller handgun slipped into an interior pocket.

Philippe nodded. “Of course, but I must admit I am somewhat out of practice.” It had been some months since Philippe had made the time to go out shooting. The sport was never really something he enjoyed, and was more of a skill he had learned out of social obligation in order to fit in with other gentlemen of his standing who relished in wielding the power of destruction in the palm of their hands. Philippe did not care for the smell of gunpowder or the stain of the soot it tended to leave on his shirtsleeves, but he offered up his hand to accept the weapon from Nadir without dispute.

Nadir handed him the smaller handgun and took his own pistol off his belt, raising it up beside his cheek.“You must keep your hand up like this, ready to fire. Show me.” He said, urging Philippe to mirror him. “I will take you down to the third cellar, and you will wait for me while I seek out Erik.” He turned and began to descend the stairs.

“Should we not remain together? If this Erik is as dangerous as you claim, would it not be wiser to face him as a team?” Philippe questioned as they were quickly engulfed in darkness, the sounds of Paris waking up fading into the distance behind them. He held his hand against the stone wall to steady himself as his vision failed him, nearly stumbling into Nadir as it became too dark to see.

“The lamp that should have been at the top of the stairs was missing, but there should be another… ah, here." Nadir stopped and leaned down to pick up an antique lantern set on the steps. He lit it with a match from his pocket, causing Philippe to wince at the sudden glare. “Erik will likely not take too kindly to being interrupted. It will be better if I speak to him first, alone. Your hand, Monsieur!”

Philippe lifted his handgun up beside his head again. “Then why have me accompany you at all?”

Nadir continued down the steps. “The pressure of having you waiting for your brother’s release should work in our favor. Erik does not wish to be exposed, and hopefully that should drive him to making the right choice in a timely manner.”

“Won’t my presence here merely anger him? Who is to say he won’t dispatch my brother the moment he learns that I have come for him?”

“Erik is dangerous, but he is not an evil man.” Nadir answered. “With some guidance, I believe he will come around and see reason. His intent is not to harm the Vicomte, not directly at least. Your brother is only a pawn in all of this.”

“That is hardly a comforting thought, Monsieur Khan.” Philippe retorted. “He is not ‘only a pawn’ to me. Should this Phantom cause any sort of harm to Raoul, I will personally see to it that he is brought to justice…”

“Keep your hand up, Monsieur le Comte!” Nadir hissed, stopping in his tracks to stare Philippe down sharply. “And your voice down. We are in the lion’s den.”

With a frustrated sigh Philippe once again assumed the position, his dominant hand holding the gun up level with his eyes. “Fine, I will do as you say. Just promise me that you will do whatever you can to bring my brother safely to me.”

They began to trek down the stairs again, the last few steps finally coming into view. “I will try, Monsieur. Now, pay attention.”

Nadir led them through several winding passageways, pointing out landmarks for Philippe to recall later as they passed. “I may need to stay behind, depending on how the conversation goes.” He explained. “I do not know if Miss Daaé has ever travelled this way, but it is unlikely. Erik does not often use these passages into his lair, because the entrance is too conspicuous on the surface. You must go slow, and carefully watch your step for traps.”

“Traps? The man has set traps?” Philippe asked distastefully.

“As I have said, Erik is not fond of visitors, especially uninvited ones.” Nadir stopped at the top of the next flight of stairs. “This path leads down to the forth cellar, and then to his home. This is where I leave you.” He set the lantern down on the ground and reached into his jacket pocket to retrieve a small silver case which rattled from the matchsticks inside. “Take these, but only use them if you must.”

Philippe took the container and pocketed it with a nod. “Is it far, his lair?”

“Not very, though the way from here is more dangerous to navigate. There is a trapdoor to climb at the end, up into Erik’s home. You may be able to hear me open it.” Nadir traded his pistol to his other hand, not once letting his hand fall down below his neck. “I will try to act with haste.”

With that, Nadir turned and headed down the stairs, leaving Philippe alone at the top, still holding his small handgun up by the side of his face. The light that Nadir carried faded away, but as he was left in darkness Philippe could still hear his companion’s footsteps, even and deliberate. Every so often they would stop and then pick up again, until they stopped for a longer period of time and were followed by a repetitive banging. He theorized that Nadir must have reached the trapdoor, and was trying to gain access to the lair. The banging subsided after a while, and Philippe listened closely as he waited for some indication that someone was coming back towards him.

After a while he dropped his hand, his arm fatigued from tensely holding the small firearm close to his cheek. He could no longer hear anything from the passage down the stairs, and as more time passed he began to feel himself getting more anxious. Eventually he gave in to curiosity and pulled one of the long matches from the metal case, and digging in his pocket for his watch he withdrew it and struck the match on the wall so that he could read the time. It was half past 8 in the morning, half an hour since the last time he had checked his watch when they had disembarked from the carriage above ground. Their journey down could not have been more than ten or fifteen minutes, and so a fair amount of time had passed since Nadir had gone off to negotiate for Raoul’s freedom.

_Surely they should have been on their way back by now._ Philippe thought as the match burned down close to his fingers. He shook it out and dropped it to the ground, looking down into the dark void at the bottom of the stairs. _Perhaps something went wrong._

There were so many possible ways that Nadir’s plan could have backfired. He sounded so sure when he said that Erik was not a mindless villain, but Philippe was not convinced. By Raoul’s and Nadir’s own testimonies, the man was a murderer, a kidnapper, a fraudster- the list went on and on. Maybe they were too late, and Nadir had arrived to find Raoul and his lover already dead. Maybe he had underestimated just how angry the Phantom would be from their intrusion and was killed himself as soon as he emerged from the trapdoor. Philippe cursed himself for not insisting that they stay together. The crushing weight of simply not knowing what was going on was far more unbearable to him, he thought, than any known disastrous outcome.

The only logical way forward, Philippe reasoned, was to go and see for himself. It was not far, and he would be careful. The only real concern he had was whether or not the remaining matches would be enough to see him through to the ladder which he would need to climb up into the lair. He counted eight long matches with his fingertips in the small silver case, and convinced himself that he would use them sparingly, only if he absolutely had to. His vision was not what it used to be, but his eyes had adjusted fine enough in the dark, and the matches would only be there as a comfort.

With one hand stretched out in front of himself, holding the little pistol out as a feeler, and the other grazing the curve of the stone wall, Philippe stepped down the stairs before him into the forth cellar. The air became noticeably more humid the further he went, and at the bottom of the stairs he was deposited into a small chamber with stone alcoves built into the walls down the length of the room. He reasoned that this hall must have been at one point some sort of storage space, now defunct by the dampness that seeped through the masonry. He lit one of his matches and saw that the room was empty apart from a few lose boards scattered here and there. Rats that skittered away as he passed through to the opposite end, where the only way forward was down a narrow hall. From the hallway he was funneled to another staircase, this one far steeper than any other they had taken before.

At the bottom he lit another match to see that he had entered a large open space, this room far more expansive than the previous. Unlike the upper levels, which were constructed with walls of stone laid with mortar, this chamber appeared to have been hewn out of the Earth itself, though it was unclear whether from time or by the intervention of men. Before him were three paths of paved stonework, one wide path straight ahead, the other two to his left and right which hugged the walls of the cave and appeared considerably more precarious. Each path served as a bridge over and around the main feature of the room; a wide pool of dark water, silent and still apart from drips which fell into it from the stalactites over head.

Philippe narrowed his eyes, and in the distance ahead of him he believed he saw an outline of a ladder against the far wall, in line with the middle path which crossed over the center of the black water. Sparked with the confidence that he had so easily made his way without a guide, Philippe set out down the path, looking to the ladder that stretched far up the wall and disappeared into a tight shaft carved into the ceiling of the cavern. He took no care to watch his step, for the stone path across the water was wide, and he saw no obvious obstacles before him. Why Nadir had been so nervous of this portion of their journey he did not understand, until suddenly the solid stones below his feet gave way and the momentum of his previously determined steps plunged him swiftly down into a pit that had appeared underneath him.

He landed on his stomach, fortunately without damage to his face, though not as much could be said for his right knee, which took the brunt of the fall. Groaning he rolled to his side, looking up into the blackness to see that the trench he had fallen into was being slowly closed across the top by a metal grate which extended out from one of the walls. Frantically Philippe pushed himself to his feet and reached up to try to stop the mechanism from completely shutting him in, his fingertips barely grazing the thick, rusty metal as he jumped up to grasp at the bars, but he was too late. The grate fell into its final position with a heavy clang, and for a moment there was an eerie silence as Philippe defeatedly leaned against one of the rocky walls of the trap. As he bent down to rub his injured knee, the quiet was broken by the sound of trickling water, slow at first, then growing with intensity as a pair of mechanical clicks sounded on either side of him. Philippe felt a spray of mist on his skin, and he looked to the walls to see that water had begun to pour into the pit from two round openings, pooling quickly at his feet.

With sudden realization, Philippe cried out in horror. “Nadir!” The water level was rising steadily, already up to his ankles. “Nadir, help!” He tried unsuccessfully once more to reach for the metal grate above him, straining his knee as he jumped up lamely to grab at the bars over his head.

It was not until the water passed his shins that he heard any sounds from the darkness above him; the familiar voice of his traveling companion arguing with another masculine voice, both loud and angry.

“I gave you fair warning not to come this way anymore. And never down the center path!”

“I told him to wait in the third cellar, if you had not stalled for so long he would not have followed. And it is not as though you gave me much choice! The path through the mirror was jammed shut.”

When they finally reached him, the two men leaned over the pit and gazed down at Philippe through the grate, lit by the soft glow of the lantern. “Are you alright, Monsieur le Comte?” Nadir asked briskly, then turning to the other man to shoot him an irate glare. “Erik, release the poor man at once!”

“To what end, Daroga?” The masked man replied callously, stepping back from the edge of the trap. “So that you may run off unpunished after breaking into my home to steal away my bride? I think not.”

“The water, Nadir!” Philippe clamored in distress as the water rose up his thighs. “I’ll be drowned, stop the water!”

“Erik, listen to me, you do not need more blood on your hands.” Nadir pushed, stepping away from Philippe’s line of sight over the walls of the pit. “Stop this now. His death will only cause you more trouble…”

“Philippe!”

Raoul’s panicked voice carried across the cavern, followed by quick, shuffling footsteps as he made his way over to the opening of the trap. A young woman called out after him, her footsteps quicker and lighter on the stones, and soon they appeared together through the bars of the grate, Raoul falling to his knees to see Philippe waist-deep in the rising water.

“Philippe, you’re here!” Raoul wheezed, stretching his hand down towards his brother. He held his other close to his chest, wrapped in some sort of dirty bandage. His outstretched hand did not reach far enough to touch the grate, and fell back against the wall of the pit defeatedly. He turned back and called over his shoulder. “Let him go!”

The cold, murky water crept higher still, pouring relentlessly from the holes in the walls. The sound of its gushing dominated for a short while, until the masked man answered simply, his tone chilling as the water.

"No."


	10. Chapter 10

With his back turned to his bride, his young rival, and old friend, Erik hoped that none could see just how unsettled he was. He clenched his fists and swallowed hard, feeling his heart pounding in his chest as his bitter refusal resonated in his mind. This entire situation had gotten so far out of hand despite his efforts to maintain his authority. He had in fact thought that Nadir would eventually show up to check on his bride, back when he had hopes that Christine would willingly accompany him down to his lair. At the time he was not concerned with dealing with his friend’s intrusion, as he would simply show that Christine was of good health and quite content to stay with him. But since his plans had been turned on their head, he had not had the time to consider how he would handle the retired police chief when he inevitably barged in, making demands and being even more dogmatic than usual. 

Erik was not used to feeling out of control; he had meticulously tried to forget the years so long ago when he was not master of his own fate, and as time passed he had promised himself that he would do everything he could to never find himself in such a position again. But now he felt trapped, cornered like a beast on his own territory.

Nadir approached him from behind, his voice imposing on Erik’s thoughts as he considered his options. “You cannot allow the Comte to die here. Word will spread of his disappearance, and once the papers start speculating there will undoubtedly be an investigation. They will come looking for you…”

Christine’s voice carried its way to his ears, its normal lilt poisoned with strife, barely a whisper compared to Nadir’s brash commands. “Please, Erik, let them go. Please, please, Erik…”

The Vicomte’s words were not directed at him, but to his brother, whose frantic splashing and cries for help were becoming more desperate with each passing second. “Do you see a lever, Philippe? Somewhere on the wall, there must be something there to open the grate, or to stop the water…”

Erik said nothing. He turned abruptly, startling his friend who had nearly placed his hand on his shoulder. Nadir continued to speak at him aggressively, but Erik did not bother to hear his words. There was nothing he could say that could sway his judgement of the brothers. Neither a fine account of their character or threat of exposure served as reason enough to spare either man, because when all was said and done they were both guilty of the only offense Erik was concerned with: they were in his way.

Stepping past Nadir, apathetically bumping his old friend with his shoulder as he did, Erik contemplated his next move. He thought more of letting the scene play out naturally, allowing the water, which now sloshed across the Comte’s chest, to continue to rise. The solid iron grid would keep the gentleman’s head just below the water, which would eventually reach an equilibrium, coming to rest at the same level of the pools from which it rushed in through the valves on either side of the pit. It was not exactly an elegant trap, but it was effective and simple. The Vicomte would be forced to watch his brother drown. Erik pictured the look on the boy’s face when the Comte stopped struggling, and after such time had passed he would leaned down the side of the walkway to hit the trigger to release the grate from across the trap. The boy would be in ruins to see that saving his brother was so simple, and yet he had failed. Then he would know, he would understand what it was like to suffer, to have someone you love torn away by another.

The Vicomte ran his hands up and down the upper walls of the trap, searching in vain for a way to free his brother, while Christine knelt next to him with a hand on the boy’s back. She did not look down into the pit, but instead her focus remained on Erik as he approached, her eyes glistening by the light of the lamp that had been set down on the stone path.

She did not need to see this scene play out. Drownings were not particularly eventful, but Erik was keenly aware of his young bride’s sensitivity towards death. To see the boy mourn the loss of his brother could damage her, and lullabies from the Angel of Music would in all probability not be enough to soothe her.

“Come, my dear, it is best that you do not witness the end of this spectacle.” Erik coaxed her, leaning down to offer his hand. “There is a way back home from here without any ladders, though it will take a bit longer.”

“You’re not going to just leave him to die, are you, Erik?” Christine answered, leaving his hand to hang in the air in front of her face. “The Comte is innocent. He only came here for Raoul, not to take me from you. He doesn’t deserve this.”

“You speak of things you do not understand, my angel.” Erik deflected, reaching down further to wrap his fingers around her upper arm. He pulled her up beside himself, her small form completely disappearing into his shadow. “No man is innocent.”

Nadir had stopped prattling on at him and had knelt down beside the Vicomte, joining in the futile search for the mechanism that would stop the trap from consuming its victim. The Comte bobbed in the water, swimming weakly now, as the top of his head approached the thick metal lattice.

Christine brought up a hand and rested it on Erik’s chest, calling for him to grant her his full attention. “I understand more than you dare to give me credit for.” She said, staring straight ahead, almost as though she could see directly through him. “Maybe he is not innocent, but… but neither am I.”

He had heard enough. “Come along, Christine.” Erik muttered and tried to step back, only to be caught by Christine as she grabbed his wrist before he could turn away.

“I asked Raoul to propose to me.” She blurted out, her dainty little fingers clenching so tight that her nails pressed hard into his skin. “You expressly told me that I should never marry, but I begged him to take me as his wife. The only reason we were not married the very next day was because he wanted to wait.”

Erik narrowed his eyes and felt his shoulders fall in disbelief. Before he could think to answer, she went on.

“He wanted to have a proper wedding, to wait a few months so that arrangements could me made. I didn’t like it, but I agreed because I… I love him.” She spouted, barely taking the time to breathe between her words. “But I made him promise to keep our engagement a secret, so that I could hide from you. You disappeared for months, and I thought you had discovered our secret and hated me, but I did not dare to look for you.”

The boy looked up from the pit for a fraction of a moment, reacting to Christine’s confession, but was too engrossed in his brother’s suffering to speak up or pull himself away from the trap. Even if what she had said was true, it did not soften Erik’s attitude toward the Vicomte. He was still a threat to his relationship with Christine.

“I forgive you for your transgressions, my love.” Erik said gently, laying his hand on her head to smooth down her frizzing hair. The ribbon she had used to tie it back previously had disappeared, leaving her long, dark locks to cascade wildly around her shoulders. “Those were trying times, when the opera was closed after all of that terrible business with the chandelier, you were not in your right mind…”

“My mind was never clearer.” Christine retorted firmly shaking off his hand from her head. “Those months away from the opera were liberating. I was happy. I… I was in love. I was… free.” She stepped back from him, wiping the loose tears that had escaped from her eyes, though her expression was not one of sorrow. “I want to be free again, Erik.”

“Philippe!”

Raoul screamed for his brother as the water overtook the gentleman, trapping him fully under the solid metal bars. The water had stopped gushing and the Vicomte’s hoarse voice echoed alone around the cavern as he laid flat on his stomach, reaching both of his arms down to grasp madly at the grate. Nadir held the young man around the waist in an ineffectual attempt to pull him away from the trap, looking himself to be profoundly distressed.

Turning his attention back to Christine, Erik found her staring at him resolutely, not once looking back to see her lover as he floundered in a last ditch attempt to free his older brother. Although her cheeks were wet with tears the features of her face were hard and unwavering, a development which surprised Erik thoroughly. He had never seen her so serious, and never before had she spoken to him so dauntlessly. He had only ever seen her as a meek, gentle creature, one that could be swayed easily by the whims of others. The girl he knew her to be was not the woman that stood before him now.

He did not know how to respond. He could not tear his eyes from her to look back at the boy and Nadir, and he could not turn around and ignore her.

“Christine,” he breathed.

“Let them go.”

“Christine…”

“Let me go.”

He knew that was what she had been trying to say to him all along, but hearing the actual words from her lips hit him like a stake to the heart. He did not want to let her go. She was his angel, his muse, the singular source of joy in his life. She was his world. But this angel did not belong here, with death and grief in her shadow, begging for her liberation. Whatever life he had planned for them was nothing more than an impossible dream now, and perhaps it always had been. She was not a creature of darkness, and it pained him to think that he had come so close to extinguishing her light.

“Christine,” he whispered her name like a prayer. “I love you.”

Her lip trembled slightly, breaking the stony expression she had managed to maintain for so long. Somehow this was a comfort to him, to see how she responded so reflexively to his admission of love. Maybe some part of her loved him after all.

Erik let a shaky breath pass through his lips before he finally was able to break his gaze from her. He stepped forward, barely grazing her as he passed, and knelt down to hit the mechanism to open the trap. Shortly after he did the gears of the metal grate began to grind, and the thick bars slowly began to recede into the walls of the pit. Seeing the trap disengage, Nadir hoisted the Vicomte up onto his knees with renewed strength and pushed the young man away from the trap. Christine caught the boy before he could fall back too far, preventing him from slamming his head against the pavers.

“Help me retrieve him, Erik.” Nadir ordered, leaning over the edge of the pit on his stomach as the Vicomte had before. He motioned for Erik to lay down beside him, and together they were able to grab hold of the Comte’s arm, floating limp and motionless in the dark water, and pull him up and over the side of the trap. The Vicomte scuttled over to his brother as soon as his body was pulled completely onto the pathway, and he hurriedly tried to reposition his sibling’s body face down across his knees.

“He’s aspirated water, we need to get him to cough it out.” The boy stammered, shaking with concern. “Hit him here, hard.” He pointed with his good hand to a spot near the center of the gentleman’s back. Nadir complied and the two began thumping on the Comte in a desperate attempt to revive the drowned man, stopping between whacks to reposition his body.

As Erik watched the two men attempt to resuscitate the Comte, Christine stood up beside him. He looked down at her and saw how the light he so admired in her had diminished, her pale skin appearing grey and lifeless, and her eyes muddled with despair. She would not forget this moment, and this was no place for her. But still he longed for her.

“Did you mean what you said?” He said quietly, so that only she could hear. “That you loved me?”

She did not answer, her sad eyes watching as the Vicomte sobbed and continued to pound on his brother’s back.

Erik licked his lips and prompted her further. “Do you hate me?”

Eventually, she whispered a response. “No.”

“How can that be?” He asked wistfully. He watched Nadir pull the Comte off of his brother’s lap and set the comatose man across his own knee.

“Love is strange.” Christine replied faintly, still not looking to him. “I should hate you. I almost want to. But I don’t.”

Their tender moment was unexpectedly interrupted by a forceful cough, and suddenly the Comte convulsed back to life. He sputtered water and hacked against the air that moved into his lungs, and Nadir and the Vicomte cried words of encouragement to the gentleman as the color began to return to his face. Relief splashed across Christine’s features, and finally she turned her head up to see Erik, at which time her expression fell once more to one of melancholy. He knew why.

“They can go.” Erik said simply, lifting his chin up in an attempt to collect himself. “And you will go with them.”

Christine’s lips parted in astonishment. “You’re releasing us?” She said, capturing the attention of the Vicomte, who looked up for the first time at them both. “You… you will let us go free?”

“Yes.” Erik answered numbly. He could feel his chest aching, and he tried to keep his breaths steady through the storm that was beginning to brew behind his eyes. He feared that if she did not go now, he would not be able to calm himself enough to let her leave.

Nadir helped the Comte rise to his feet, and the boy stood up next to Christine soon after. The young man stepped behind her and laid a protective hand on her waist, urging her to step back to him.

“We must go around the side of the cavern, down the narrow path to the exit.” Nadir said, throwing the Comte’s arm over his shoulder. The gentleman coughed and groaned but was able to walk along with Nadir as they backtracked towards the ladder to make their way around the side of the cave.

“Take the lamp, you will need it.” Erik instructed Christine, leaning down to grab the lantern’s thin wire handle. He held it out to her, but she did not reach out to take it.

Instead, she slowly reached for the ring that he had slipped onto her hand when they had been on stage the previous night, its large, dark gemstone catching the light as she twisted it off of her thin finger. She wordlessly offered it to him, her eyes wide with sadness, saving herself from a teary, guttural goodbye.

Erik lifted his other hand and wrapped his fingers around hers, closing the ring in her open palm. “Please, keep it.” He said carefully, feeling the warmth of her closed fist against his calloused skin. “I would ask that you think of me sometimes, but I fear that you will only ever remember me as a monster.”

The Vicomte looked away from him, confirming what Erik knew the boy thought of him. But Christine did not turn away, instead pressing her lips together sadly while she furrowed her brow in pity. She shook her head very slightly, then returned the ring to her finger before reaching out for the lantern. In just a few moments Erik was left in the darkness as they slowly made their way around the lake and out of the cavern, the dim light of the lamp swaying in front of them.

Soon the glow of the lamp disappeared completely, and his light was gone.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To any American readers, to avoid confusion, there is a reference to a "second" and "first" floor in this chapter. Please note how building floors are designated in European countries, as described by this excerpt: "In the US, the first floor of a building is also the ground floor, but in Europe the first floor is the floor above the ground floor, and the second floor is the one above that."

It did not take long for them to reach the surface, but each step was arduous. Christine had handed off the lantern to the Persian man once they had left the cavern, as she had been struggling to lift both it and Raoul, who was having trouble climbing the steep stairs that led out of the cellars. She laced a protective arm around his back to try to hold him steady after seeing him sway and stumble on the first few steps, and the rest of the way up Raoul profusely apologized for being such a terrible burden. She sighed and dismissed him, trying to focus on keeping both of them from tumbling backwards every time he would falter. They were both exhausted and in pain, and she did not see just how egregious his injuries were until they had passed through the iron gate at the top of the last set of stairs and into the morning sunlight.

In the shadowy lair Christine had not noticed how extensive the bruising was on his face, some still bright red and others, especially the one around his eye, already deepening into a dark purple. The blood running down his cheek had stopped and mostly dried down, though some up by his hairline still appeared wet and tacky in the bright spring sun, and the previously white kitchen towels around his hand were startlingly soaked a dark crimson. His most disturbing injury, however, was the deep, angry line that wrapped around his neck just under his jawline, it’s horrible appearance reminding her of how close she had come to losing him.

As they shuffled further away from the building she could hear passersby whispering, though she could hardly blame them. What a sight they all must have been, Raoul and herself with sunken under-eyes from lack of sleep, him battered and bloodied, and his brother soaked to the bone with dirty water. They only had to endure judgment for a short while, as the Persian man called the attention of a carriage, which was marked with a small nameplate on the door reading “CHAGNY”, that was waiting nearby. He hurriedly packed the two brothers and Christine inside as the driver hopped down to assist in the loading.

“Monsieur le Comte!” The coachman exclaimed, seeing the state of his passengers. “Monsieur le Vicomte! What has happened to them?”

“They must be seen by a doctor, immediately.” The Persian man instructed as he shut the door. “I assume there is one on retainer at their estate.” He turned to look into the carriage window. "I would go with you, but I am afraid there are other pressing matters to which I must attend.”

The coachman jumped up to the driver’s platform and readied the horses as the Comte leaned forward to speak to their mysterious guide. “You do not intend to go back there, do you?” He asked, his voice tired and hoarse.

“Do not trouble yourself with concern for me, Monsieur.” The Persian answered, moving back from the carriage door to make way for its departure. “I will be fine.”

The carriage pulled forward, and Christine sat up to look through the glass pane set into the back window to see the finely dressed man approaching the iron gate that led back down to the bowels of the opera house. Before she could decide whether she thought the Persian man was brave or mad her focus was brought back to reality, where she grappled with keeping Raoul upright as the carriage bumped along on the cobblestones of the street. 

When they arrived at the estate, the coachman leapt down from his seat and called for the grooms to fetch help. By the time all three had exited the carriage they were surrounded by what felt like a sea of hands, and were guided up to the front doors of the manor into the foyer. Christine could hardly get a word in edgewise as the household staff chittered around them, and before she could protest Raoul and his brother were briskly swept up the grand staircase by an assortment of manservants and maids. She tried to call after and follow her fiancé up the stairs, but she was quickly intercepted by more of the household staff, and her pleading was only met with the soft cooing of three women who speedily pushed her down one of the hallways that branched off of the foyer. They brought her to a small sitting room, its walls papered with a print of teal and gold flowers that caught the light and glistened in the morning sun that shown through the tall windows. The maids led Christine to sit down on a small sofa in the middle of the room, which she did hesitantly before composing herself enough to speak up for what she truly wanted.

“I would like to see Rao…- the Vicomte, please.” She said sternly as the staff had turned from her to leave. “He is unwell, and I’m sure he is worried about me…”

“He is being seen by the doctor, or will be soon.” The oldest of the maids addressed her, standing in the doorway. “I will tell his valet that you asked to see him. Sit now and rest, dear. You look absolutely exhausted.”

The maid was right, she was exhausted. Sitting in this warm and cozy little room, with the knowledge that both she and Raoul were safe, at least for now, Christine became painfully aware of how desperately tired she truly was. She could have easily curled up on the sofa right there and dozed off, but a nagging feeling in her chest still remained. Raoul had looked so unwell in the light of the sun, and he had grown markedly quiet in the carriage, his head bobbing unnaturally with every bump in the road.

“Miss?”

Christine was shaken out of her own thoughts, realizing that she had been staring at the pretty floral wallpaper as the maid had continued to speak to her. “Hmm?” She hummed in response.

“I asked if I could bring you a cup of tea?” The maid repeated.

“Oh,” Christine breathed and blinked her eyes hard to try to center herself again. “Yes, I suppose. And please ask after the Vicomte.”

The maid excused herself and stepped out of the room, leaving Christine alone to stare out the window. It was a beautiful day, bright and sunny. She thought of getting up to open the window to the fresh spring air, but instead she rested her head in her hand and leaned against the arm of the upholstered couch. The breeze played with the leaves on the low hanging branches of the large trees outside, hypnotizing her and lulling her off to sleep in a matter of minutes.

* * *

In the late afternoon a male member of the household staff roused her and brought her to a guest room upstairs, on the second floor. Again she was left alone, her requests to see or be informed of Raoul’s condition brushed off without a chance for argument as the door swung closed, shutting her off from the rest of the house. At first she thought she heard the door lock, and fearfully she ran towards it to shake the handle in an attempt to free herself. But the door swung open easily and Christine found herself standing dumbly in the open doorway, feeling silly that she would even think that she could be in danger here. Not a soul remained in the hall, though it was not surprising, as there were many open doors and paths to take from where she stood. Although it was similarly quiet, the grand house was the complete opposite of the cavernous lair they had escaped from only hours before, elegant and bright. Even the hallway was luxuriously and warmly decorated, its high ceilings adorned with intricate moulding, the walls painted in light from the large window at the end. She had no reason to be afraid here. Stepping back, she closed the door again, repeating to herself that everything was fine. The worst was over.

The guest room had apparently been prepared for her while she napped on the sofa, a light dressing gown laid out on the bed and an assortment of toiletries set on a tray on the plush bench pushed against the footboard. She stripped down to her chemise and drawers, leaving the blush colored gown folded carefully on one of the armchairs by the unlit fireplace, and took the tray to the ensuite bath to wash her face and tie back her hair.

She emerged feeling slightly refreshed, but still she was unable to shake the feeling of unease that was brewing inside of her. Why were the staff being so short with her? Surely Raoul must have said something to them, for her to be offered this room to stay in. Maybe he even let it slip that the two of them were engaged, and the staff, loyal to the master of the house, were avoiding her for fear of being reprimanded. If that were the case, Christine reasoned that she had no choice but to venture out and find Raoul’s bedroom herself. She had to see him, even if he was asleep. Just to know for sure that he was resting and well taken care of, she thought, would be enough to calm her. At least for now.

Carefully she opened the door to the hallway, leaning out to check that it was clear before tip toeing onto the ornate carpet that ran down the length of the corridor. She hugged the cream colored dressing gown close around herself, making sure that it was securely tied in the event she bumped into someone. As she progressed down the hall she came to a corner, and turning around it she came to the stairwell that she had traversed earlier to get to the second floor. From what she recalled, Raoul had been led down a hall on the first floor, to the right off of the main staircase. After pausing to listen for approaching footsteps, Christine gingerly walked down the stairs and made her way to the grand staircase, passing it to enter the hall off of which she assumed she would find Raoul’s bedroom.

She turned another corner hastily while still glancing over her shoulder, wanting to get off of the landing that overlooked the foyer as soon as possible. After a few blind steps Christine felt her foot catch on something in front of her and she stumbled forward, barely catching herself on a decorative table against the wall. She snatched up a small, delicate looking crystal vase that teetered on the table before it could fall over, setting it back down cautiously as she looked back to see what she had tripped on.

Against the light wood panelling of the hallway, slumped down with one of his legs stretched out across the path of the hall, was Raoul, his other leg bent awkwardly underneath himself so that he was sitting on his foot. He didn’t look up at her, but instead sloppily rubbed his shin that she had just kicked as she fell over him, mumbling faintly to himself.

“Raoul!” Christine gasped as she knelt down beside him, laying one of her hands on his shoulder. His skin was warm and damp, even though he was barely dressed. The only garment he wore was a long nightshirt that ended just at his knees, the front buttons undone leaving his chest exposed. He had a small quilted blanket thrown over his shoulders but it had mostly fallen behind him, and he was now shivering. His left hand had been bandaged securely but was already showing signs of needing to be changed, and had leaked onto the fabric of his shirt at some point. Other than that, he had been cleaned up quite well, the blood that had dripped down his face earlier scrubbed away, his hair still slightly wet from being washed.

Raoul blinked slowly and rolled his head over to look at her. “Christine?” He said slowly, his eyelids drooping. “Could you… could you bring me…” His words were slurred, and faded away as though he was lost deep in thought. “Bring me something to drink?” He finished eventually.

Christine stared at him disconcertedly for a moment. “Of course.” She answered delicately, in an attempt to not perturb him. Somehow he looked even worse than he did before, his eyes glazed over and his skin flushed red. He was not himself, possibly under the influence of some medication to help him sleep. She recalled her father trying some type of sleeping drug, years ago when he had suffered from insomnia which kept him from resting for days at a time. He had quickly sworn off taking it, however, as it led him to have dreadful nightmares and sometimes even walk around in his sleep. “Raoul, how long have you been sitting here in the hallway?”

He did not answer her immediately, instead bringing his focus down to his hand in his lap. “My hand hurts.” He stated, pulling up his other hand from his shin to pick at the bandages that were wrapped up past his wrist. “Wh- wh-… Christine? Have you seen my…” He leaned his head back against the wall, bumping it against the wood with a thud. “I… ouch.”

Unsure of what to do, Christine tried to capture Raoul’s wavering consciousness. “Raoul, listen to me. Are you listening?” She touched his cheek to turn his head, forcing him to look her in the eyes. “I am going to look for someone to help take you back to your bedroom, alright?” Ideally, she would have liked to bring him back to his bed on her own, but she did not think she would be able to lift him now that he likely wouldn’t be able to support himself at all. “You need to stay sitting up, okay? Come here, you’re slouching too far.”

Christine leaned over him as far as she could and slipped her hands under his armpits to hoist him up, hoping that he would stay sitting long enough for her to go get help. She feared that he might somehow fold over himself, falling into a position that would cause him to stop breathing, but she did not want to wait here for some undetermined amount of time, only hoping that some staff member would pass by eventually. Pulling the blanket up fully around his shoulders, Christine pressed a kiss to the side of Raoul’s head before bending back to stand.

“Christine…” Raoul drawled, his head lolling to one side, eyes closed. “I love you.”

If his wellbeing had not depended on Christine leaving to find help so urgently, she would have fallen back to her knees to gather Raoul in her arms, holding him so tightly to express just how much she loved him in return. Instead, she looked down at him with a solemn smile, and brushed his hair across his sweaty forehead with her fingertips.

“I know, and I love you. I’ll be right back. I promise.”

* * *

With Raoul tucked safely back into his bed, Christine could finally feel the tightness in her chest beginning to disperse. The family doctor returned to examine Raoul again, and found the small bottle of medication that he had prescribed to Raoul for his pain had been emptied. It had contained four doses, to be taken over the next two days, but either by miscommunication or dismissal Raoul had swallowed the entire contents of the container. The doctor assured her that the side effects were nothing to be too concerned over, and that the delirium would subside after a few hours, but that he should be monitored while he slept just in case he should roll over and end up face-down in one of the pillows. Raoul’s valet had said that he would sit up to watch over his master, but with some persuasion (and a few well-timed tears) he eventually relented and left Christine alone at the Vicomte’s bedside, stating that he would be just next door and that she could call on him when he was needed.

Her eyes felt heavy again as the sun set, too tired to continue reading the novel she had picked off of one of the tall bookshelves in the room to entertain herself. Resting the opened book in her lap, she laid her hand next to the form of Raoul’s wrapped hand under the sheets of the bed, wanting to be close to him without disturbing his rest. She straightened herself in the cushioned chair when the maids came in to draw the curtains shut and offer her a small plate of bread and cheese to eat, as well as refresh the pitcher of water set on the nightstand. They hardly said a word to her, only stopping to ask if she would like the gas lights turned on so that she might continue reading. She politely declined at first, but after a moment of thought she asked for the lamp nearest to her on the wall to be lit low, just enough so that she was not left in complete darkness. The maids obliged and left right after, closing the door fully behind themselves.

Christine watched them as they left, then set the plate she had been given down on the small table beside her and picked at it slowly. She was not really hungry, chewing on the bread merely to keep herself amused. She was more thirsty than anything, having drank most of the water in the pitcher which she had asked for by Raoul’s request when he was slumped down in the hallway. He had barely taken a sip before he drifted off again, and had made no movements besides the gentle rising and falling of his chest since.

Time passed slowly, and Christine switched between watching Raoul sleep, playing with the belt of her dressing gown, and trying to read for a few hours, until she ultimately succumbed to the sweet, warm embrace of sleep. She had not even realized that she had laid her head down on the mattress in front of her, leaning into the bed from her position in the chair, one arm propping up her forehead while the other stretched out in front of herself, resting across Raoul’s thigh. She woke with a start to find Raoul’s valet had come back into the room and was sitting across from her on the other side of the bed, the morning sunlight that peeked in from the curtains drawing a line down from his shoulder to the floor.

“Good morning, Miss.” He said to her, then took a sip from the cup in his hand. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” Christine yawned, embarrassed to be caught shirking her duties as a watchman. “I’m so sorry, I tried to stay up for as long as I could, but I suppose I just nodded off.”

“I thought you might.” The valet shrugged nonchalantly. “You looked like you needed it. I did not want to wake you.”

Honestly, she could have gone straight back to sleep, given the opportunity. “Has he woken up yet?”

“Just for a moment, a few hours ago. He was glad to see you here.”

The thought of Raoul waking to find himself not alone brought a faint smile to her lips, and Christine nodded in appreciation of the news. “Good. I am glad to be here.”

The valet sat with her for a short while in silence, until he stood up and excused himself, saying that he had to get some sleep before facing the rest of the day. He offered to call for breakfast for her, which she refused, and soon he was gone, leaving Christine alone with the ticking of the clock on the mantel and Raoul’s slow, steady breaths.

She picked up the book that had fallen to the floor from her lap and leafed through the pages, trying to find where she had left off before she had fallen asleep. Every so often she would peek up to steal a glance at Raoul, the bruised features of his face tranquil but telling a story of suffering far more moving than the novel in her hands. She was able to read through a chapter like this, looking back and forth between the text and him, until upon one of her exchanges she found Raoul’s ocean blue eyes looking back at her.

“Raoul.” She smiled tenderly as she closed the book, losing her place once again. “How are you feeling?”

“Marvelous.” He groaned, shifting to prop his head up higher on the pillow. He pulled his good hand out from under the sheet and laid it languidly across his forehead. “I think I might go for a stroll.”

“Raoul you can’t, you must rest…” Christine began, before noticing the roguish smile that had spread across his split lips. “Ah. Sarcasm.”

“Sorry.” He said with a soft chuckle, his eyes covered by his forearm.

“No, I am glad to see you’ve recovered your faculties. You scared me pretty badly yesterday.” Christine informed him. “I was afraid that I was losing you.”

“I truly am sorry, Christine.” He became more serious, dropping his arm back down onto the covers. “I don’t know where my head went. Yesterday is… very much a blur.”

“Do you remember leaving the opera?” She asked as he began to maneuver himself to sit more upright. “Getting into the carriage, or coming home?”

“Not entirely.” He answered, leaning back into the pillows after Christine had fluffed them up for him. “I remember seeing you, in the sunlight. And the relief of being free.”

Christine felt her cheeks redden at his words, noting how charming he remained, even in such a state as he was. “You must have lost a good deal of blood, to have such a spotty recollection of yesterday.” She thought then of how the events of the previous days were likely to stay with her for the rest of her life, and perhaps it was for the best that he did not remember. Raoul should not have to carry the burden of those memories, especially not on top of the scars from the physical wounds he would likely end up with.

“Or it could be the head wounds.” He suggested. “Either way, I don’t plan to be in bed for long. Though I am glad you are still here.”

“Of course I am. It never crossed my mind to leave.” Christine assured him. “You know, you accidentally took four times the dose of the medicine the doctor prescribed for you yesterday. I found you laying in the hall!”

“Did you really?” He asked, raising his brows in surprise. “I don’t remember a thing.”

They chatted for a while, keeping the conversation as pleasant as they could given the circumstances. A few of the household staff filtered in and out of the bedroom, opening the curtains to let in the morning light and leaving the door open as they brought in hot and cold beverages for both of them. A footman deposited a small stack of letters on the nightstand for Raoul, and notified him of a package left on the doorstep.

“It carried this note, Monsieur. Should I have the package brought up?” The footman said, presenting a neatly folded envelope with a delicately marked black trim. Taking the note, Raoul flipped it over to see the black seal pressed into the back, the image of the stamp giving the wax an impression of a skull. Raoul shot Christine a worried glance, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“He wouldn’t.” Christine said, shaking her head.

Raoul turned back to the footman. “The package, does it appear dangerous? How long has it sat on the step?”

“It is small, and rattles slightly, Monsieur. It is covered with a drape, with a handle on the top. It was only just discovered this morning, sir, after the post was collected.” The footman relayed. “There was a knock on the door.”

“He was here.” Raoul gritted through his teeth. “He came _here_.”

“Bring the package up.” Christine said to the footman, dismissing him. She took the note from Raoul’s hand and flicked open the seal, pulling the folded note from inside. “Carefully, please.”

“Christine, no!” Raoul objected as she unfolded the paper. “It could be tainted. This may well be another one of his schemes.”

“The letter is addressed to both of us. Look.” She replied, dropping the opened envelope in his lap for him to examine again. “You said it yourself, he was here. If he wanted to do us any more harm I doubt he would do so from a distance.”

Raoul was unconvinced. “How you could think that he could mean us anything but harm is beyond me.” He quipped, shaking his head as he fingered the broken seal. “And to leave a suspicious package? A hand-delivered, suspicious package?” He leaned over to her, reaching for the note as she scanned the writing slowly. Christine leaned away, not breaking her eyes from the messy script, written in red ink. “What does it say?”

Christine blinked and looked up from the note at Raoul, still digesting the contents of the letter. The footman returned in that time and she waved him over, having him leave the mystery package at her feet. The footman bowed respectfully and left, leaving the door to the hallway open just a crack. Leaning down, Christine hesitated in pulling the drape back from the box, which shifted slightly under her hand.

“Christine?” Raoul appealed again. “The note? What does it say?”

“He’s leaving.”

“What?”

Christine pulled back the cloth covering the package, revealing a small metal crate. Inside, staring up at her with its large, sky blue eyes, sat Erik’s siamese cat, startled by the sudden change in atmosphere. It chirped and mewed at her, begging for the latch on the front of the cage to be opened. As soon as she did the cat pushed the door open eagerly and strutted out of its little prison, and quickly leapt up onto the bed to get a better look at its new surroundings.

“What in the world…” Raoul said in disbelief as the cat approached him, its tail drifting from side to side. After brushing Raoul’s unbandaged hand with the side of its face, it eventually settled down, curling up beside him on the bed with a toothy yawn. “Christine, read me the letter.”

Lifting the note from her lap, Christine fixated on the handwriting on the paper, suddenly unable to see past the scrawl of the red ink to decipher the message. Her heart sank, though she did not fully understand why. Feeling Raoul staring at her impatiently, she finally was able to rip her eyes away from the note, handing it to him to read aloud.

_My Dearest Christine (& Monsieur le Vicomte, who will inevitably read this correspondence),_

_There remains little reason for me to remain in Paris. As such, I write to inform you of my immediate departure. Our time together will not leave me, however, as I am sure it will not leave you. I can not promise that we will never meet again, as I believe I am abandoning a piece of my soul in saying goodbye to you. Care for yourself as I was unable to. If that should mean that you must marry the boy, you may do so without apprehension. I only ask that you grant me permission to carry the memory of you with me, as that is the one and only desire I have left in this life._

_Your fallen Angel,_

_Erik_

PTO

Raoul flipped the letter over, finding another message written on the back of the note which Christine had not seen.

_Ayesha is quite self-sufficient, although I fear she has grown accustomed to human companionship. She would do well to keep the Vicomte’s kitchen free of pests, in exchange for a warm place to sleep._

The cat, Ayesha, had begun to purr contentedly beside Raoul, her gentle rumbling loud compared to the silence that hung in the air between them.

“You believe him, that he is truly gone?” Raoul broke the quiet before long.

“I… do.” Christine said, warily gauging Raoul’s reaction. “I know, we have no reason to put any faith in him, but I have to believe him.”

“Why?” Raoul implored, trying to hide his exasperation.

“Because I have to. _We_ have to.” She clarified. “If we want to move on from this, from everything that has happened, we cannot allow ourselves to be consumed by the thought that we are being haunted by a ghost. He is gone.” She took the letter from Raoul’s hand, holding it up straight in front of him. “This note is our chance to start over.”

Raoul eyed the note briefly, then reached over and took it back from her, crumpling it in his fist. “He is gone.” He conceded with a nod.

The rest of the day passed by peacefully. Raoul went down for a nap after a short while, and later on they sat together on his bed to eat dinner and talk about the book she had been reading. Philippe stopped by late in the evening, looking worlds better than he had previously, and they exchanged words without argument when Raoul informed him that Christine would be staying with them indefinitely. When the sky grew dark Raoul became tired again, and as the carefully dosed medication administered by the doctor started to kick in he asked her to lay down beside him, a proposal which Christine so desperately wanted to give in to. Instead she cupped his cheek in her hand and kissed him deeply, promising to return to him as soon as she woke up the following morning.

Arriving in the guest room she would now call her own, Christine shut the door behind herself and crossed the bedroom in the dark to the short bookcase in the far corner. Nearly every room in the Chagny estate seemed to have a bookshelf in one form or another, a quirk to which she was presently greatly appreciative. She ran her hand across the spines of the books until she found one that pleased her, and pulling it out she laid it flat on the floor in front of her where she knelt.

Reaching into one of the front pockets of her dressing gown, she fastidiously withdrew the crumpled note she had scooped off the floor of Raoul’s bedroom, smoothing it out on the wooden floorboards before gently laying it to rest among the pages of the book. She studied it momentarily, the red ink appearing colorless in the shadows of the room, and gently traced the signature at the bottom of the page with her fingertip before closing the note within the book. She arranged it back on the shelf, careful to remember its placement and appearance, before stepping away to ready herself to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read this story, especially those of you who have left such lovely comments, words of encouragement, and kudos. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it. x


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